


High Tide

by bluRaaven



Series: Blacktyde Chronicles [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Blacktyde Chronicles, Falling In Love, Fights, Friendship, M/M, Markarth, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 96,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluRaaven/pseuds/bluRaaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ancient threat has arisen in the south and even as the oncoming darkness threatens to engulf Skyrim, fate will unite two strangers. One man who seeks a purpose in life, while the other strives to reclaim his lost honor. Maybe, at the turn of the tide, they will find together what they were looking for in vain on their own.</p><p>UPDATE 31.07.2015: Today is a sad day, my friends. A couple of thousand words in I managed to delete the newest and nearly finished chapter.  All attempts at recovery failed.  I may have cried.  Let us come together and observe a minute's silence in memory of those letters and special characters which were forever lost in this tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Regrettably, I don’t own Skyrim. Bethesda does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I have taken several years out between the Markarth Incident and now, we now happen to be in 4E 195. The Great war ended 20 years ago, and 17 years ago Ulfric's forces retook Markarth. Argis is 34 years old, Wulf is 30, Ulfric 42 and Galmar is in his 50s.  
> If you think back to AWWY, Wulf arrived in the Imperial City roughly a year and a half after the last battle, which is why it was so very run down at the time. All this will have no real impact on this story whatsoever, it's just meant for your information. The reason why I changed the date was because I want this series to continue for quite a while and I needed the characters to be younger. A bunch of 70-year-old 'heroes' just doesn't cut it. 
> 
> I should be writing Argis’s, but nay, all those ‘s’ make for awkward reading (and writing). I hope you don’t mind.

It started with a knock. One hesitant at first, and then another. When nobody answered, it turned into a light rapping before whoever was outside got frustrated enough to firmly thump on the front door. Muffled through the solid stone walls of his home the noise made its way into Argis' dreams.

_The Nord warrior tensed, ready to jump aside and avoid collision with the group of galloping riders before they bore down upon him, trampling him to death. He could hear the hagraven's wild shrieks and gleeful cackles as she brandished a goat's leg, the roasting spit still attached. But the horses ran past, the beat of their hooves rapidly dwindling in the distance. "Watch out for the raven," Hákan said, as he raised his axe high above his head and brought it down with a dull thud upon the chopping block. It was a clean blow, decapitating the hagraven, whose head rolled over, blinked and grinned up at Argis._

Argis startled awake with a sharp intake of breath, not from the gruesome scene of his dream, for blood and death had lost their horror long ago - but upon seeing the ghost of a man now four years dead. It was then that he realized somebody was at the door and judging by the sound, ready to tear it off its hinges. With a grunt and a muttered curse at the incessant pounding, Argis rose, slipped into a pair of breeches and a shirt from the day before and shuffled down the hallway to answer the door. It was too early for Brigge to call on him, their unit would not be ready for another offensive strike until Fredas, which was, Argis groggily remembered, the day after tomorrow. Besides, the commander was not an early riser. In fact, it would require a major case of emergency to get him out of bed before dawn. And the sun had not yet risen, of that he was sure. Though the perpetual gloom of Vlindrel Hall gave no clue as to the time, Argis had learned to trust his own inner clock a long time ago.

At the door he was greeted by a blast of cold, fresh air and the face of a grumpy courier. The man's hand was raised, being interrupted mid-knock and he looked tired and rather pissed-off. Before Argis had a chance to ask what was so important it couldn't wait until a decent hour, the messenger spoke.

"Are you Argis?" the man whom the housecarl did not recall seeing around Markarth before, enquired. "The one they call ‘The Bulwark'?"

"Yeah," Argis replied, his voice still rough from sleep and saw the courtier give a curt nod. He cleared his throat and wanted to speak, but was cut off brusquely.

"The Jarl demands your immediate attendance."

Argis did not try to hide his astonishment. "What in blazes for?"

In response, he received a raised eyebrow and a biting retort. "How am I supposed to know? Jarl Igmund does not see fit to share counsel with me." The courier gave Arigs' rumpled appearance a disgusted once-over and continued "I trust you know the way to the keep. I have other affairs to attend to." And without a word of parting, the man turned on his heels and left.

Argis was still trying to understand what just had happened when an icy gust drove him back into the warm interior of his home. Closing the door behind him he briefly debated returning to the cosy softness of his bed and sleep's welcoming embrace. Argis winced at the sudden pain in his chest and he felt a deep yearning sadness as he remembered the man in his dream. Most days he did not think about Hákan at all and sometimes... well, sometimes he needed to get his ass moving because duty was calling.

Uttering another oath the warrior snapped out of his gloomy thoughts and focused on the task at hand, which was making himself respectable. Wondering what Markarth's ruler wanted from him at the very butt creak of dawn Argis rummaged about his wardrobe in search of clean clothes – where _had_ all his clothes gone? He finished dressing and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Feeling stubble on his face he frowned. This wouldn't do. Quickly, he splashed his face with cold water, shaved, and donned his armour – now _that_ he could do anytime, awake or half-asleep and anywhere in daylight as easily as in total darkness. His fingers moved deftly, swiftly tying buckles and leather stripes. There was little Argis could do for his hair on such short notice. When he had returned yesterday evening, he had been too tired to do more than cursory scrub himself down with a wet towel before he hit the pillow. He had spent the last week scouting the wilds, keeping track of their enemy. He might still look like, though at least he no longer smelled like the local wildlife. So he simply ran a comb through the mess before tying his blonde hair into a ponytail. It would have to suffice. After casting his bed one last longing glance Argis left his home for the Understone Keep.

It had been over a year since Argis had last spoken more than a few words to Jarl Igmund. He pondered the reason for his summoning as he made his way through the silent streets of Markarth. Except for the occasional torch which lighted the alleys in the wealthier districts, the city was dark and Argis met no one save for a miserable guard on duty whom he greeted with a nod. To the far east, over Markarth's walls he could make out the pale, rosy glow of dawn. The autumn air was chilly, bitter cold most people would say, but the cold did not bother Argis. He was a true Nord and he delighted in the way his breath misted over. It helped him clear his head and wash the last traces of sleep from his mind as he made his way up and down a multitude of stairways.

At the gates the guards waved him through with barely a glance.  Undoubtedly they had their orders and he was well known. Argis continued through the hallway and ascended the last flight of steps which led up to the Mournful Throne. Jarl Igmund had not aged well over the past years. He appeared exhausted and sat slumped in the oversized seat of his throne. An old, dented shield lay across his knees. There were dark rings under his eyes and his attire was dishevelled, making Argis wonder whether he had gotten any sleep at all.

He came to a halt in front of Markarth's ruler and saluted him, noting the way Faleen's eyes tracked his every movement. The Redguard woman was the Jarl's housecarl, there to protect her sovereign –with her life if necessary. It was good to look at her and not feel the burning wave of resentment and failure. It had taken a long time, but Argis had finally overcome his bitterness.

"You summoned me, my Jarl," the warrior stated.

"Ah! Yes, yes it is good you have finally arrived. I trust everything went well on your mission?"

Argis hid his frown. If the Jarl wanted to discuss the soldiers' progress he could have simply awaited Brigge's report. That was not why he was here. Still, he replied politely, "It has, Jarl. Rolfrik, Thurek and me we finally managed to track the Forsworn down. They made camp a few miles from the Karthspire, down by the Laskjö Falls at Gudrun's Eye. A briarheart is with them, as well as a hagraven. We haven't caught sight of her, but we are fairly certain she is there. Commander Brigge is ready to launch an attack on Fredas. The recruits are eager for their first battle, they have trained hard." Argis smiled proudly. He had had an essential part in training Markarth's young warriors.

The Jarl nodded and murmured his assent, though Argis could tell he wasn't really listening. He waited in silence while Jarl Igmund stared off into space.

All of a sudden the Jarl spoke up, shaking himself out of his reverie with a small jerk of his head. "I am sure you are curious as to the reason why I called for you."

"I am at your command, my Jarl," Argis intoned formally.

He saw a small smile playing across the Jarl's mouth at his words. "Yes. You are. But as you have been out of the city these last weeks, allow me to bring you up to date. There have been several incidents with the Forsworn lately. They grow bold, attacking along the main routes in broad daylight. But instead of fighting us, whenever they see a contingent of our soldiers, they slink away like the cowardly goats they are." The Jarl's hand hit the armrest of his throne to underline his words; his voice rose in anger.

The Forsworn were the Reaches' natives, but the Nord had driven them out of their homeland over a thousand years ago. Or rather, they had tried to drive them out. Ever since the two people had been at war. But the Forsworn had survived, unforgiving, and bent upon reclaiming what they believed to be rightfully theirs, which included the city of Markarth and every other settlement in the Reach. Eighteen years ago they had almost succeeded. The Forsworn had gained control of Markarth and had it not been for Ulfric Stormcloak and his campaign, they might have retained control over the city.

"We haven't been able to engage them in direct combat, but thankfully, there are always adventurers ready to risk their heads in the name of glory."

Argis winced at the words, but the Jarl resumed – whether uncaring or not noticing, the warrior could not tell.

"You may have heard the rumours. One of them actually managed to pique my interest. To make a long story short, I decided to test his mettle and sent him on a – quest..." At this point the Jarl petted the shield.

Argis still had no idea where this was going and, more importantly, what it had to do with him, but he held his tongue and feigned interest. He had, in fact heard rumours about a group of adventurers taking on a whole camp of the Forsworn, but he had not been back long enough to catch up on the gossip. He might have been doing just that, the Nine knew soldiers loved to gossip as much as milkmaids. As fate would have it, here he was listening to the ramblings of his Jarl. Argis briefly wondered whether it was some disease the nobility was afflicted with, that they could not simply _say_ what they wanted.

" _Spit it out and be done with it,"_ as Hákan used to say. _"Better than chewin' on somethin' when ya don't like the taste"._ With a start, Argis realized his attention had been wavering. Thankfully, the Jarl did not notice.

"... to retrieve this very shield. It has been an heirloom of my family, passed down from father to son for many generations. Hrolfdir, my father gave it to me, but alas! When Markarth was occupied by these Forsworn... ," he halted briefly, searching for the right word "... vermin... the shield was deemed lost. And now it has been reclaimed again!"

Argis watched the Jarl wearily as the man lovingly stroked what Argis could only call an old piece of junk metal. He distrusted the glint in the other man's eyes.

"And that is why for his dedication and bravery I have chosen to honour said adventurer with the title of Thane of Markarth." Jarl Igmund stopped, looked into Argis' one good eye and smiled. "And you, Argis, I appoint as his housecarl."

In the ensuing silence Argis could hear the blood roaring in his ears. Stunned, he had gone stock-still, ground his teeth and resisted the urge to ask whether this was a joke, because if so, it wasn't bloody funny.

Looking down upon the face of Markarth's prized warrior, now flushed red – with anger, no doubt – Jarl Igmund almost chuckled, feeling a slight pang of sympathy for the man. Adventurers really were the worst kind. And with Argis' past it was no wonder the warrior took this as an insult. Schooling his features the Jarl continued in a sympathetic voice.

"I called for you at this hour, because I thought you would appreciate having as much time as possible before he arrived. His swift advance to Thane was not entirely my decision. I would rather not give a stranger this much power, but he has served Markarth faithfully, so far."

Argis sighed, swallowing his anger. The Jarl was encumbered by politics; he might not have had much of a choice. As he had said, strangers were not welcome in Markarth. You never knew if one wasn't a spy for the Forsworn or the Thalmor. Which made Argis – what? His Thane's watchdog? Still, the Jarl had done alright by him in the past, so he was willing to trust him. In spite of that he had to clear his throat twice, before asking hoarsely "When will he arrive, my Jarl?"

"Today afternoon, at the earliest. After court, maybe. The purchase agreement of Vlindrel Hall was signed yesterday; I have already handed over the keys."

Upon hearing these words, Argis felt his blood run cold. "What about our agreement?" he burst out, in an unusual breach of his professional demeanour.

Jarl Igmund waved a hand, appeasing the distressed Nord. "It still stands, of course, and will continue to do so, don't you worry. And now, I must return to matters of state."

Knowing he was being dismissed, Argis saluted once more, before turning to leave. He had almost reached the bottom of the stairs, when he heard Jarl Igmund speak up again.

"And Argis – do not disappoint me this time."

"I will not, my Jarl," the warrior responded, but whether the Jarl had heard him, he did not know. He held his composure until he was safely back home, where he finally allowed himself to panic. With a litany of curses he kicked a bucket across the living room, before collapsing against the door of his house. Still swearing, he ran his hands over his face and through his hair in a nervous gesture. He wished he had never gotten out of bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read about the dragonborn, you'll need to be patient. This starts out as Argis’ story, because the DB already had his, a - sort of – prequel "Before the Storm" where you can get to know Wulf beforehand. 
> 
> It's not necessary to read it in order to begin with this story, though of course I recommend it since this is part three of the Blacktyde Chronicles, 'Before the Storm' being part one and 'A Wild and Wicked Youth' being part two. So, things can get confusing after a while if you don't know what happened before. 
> 
> That said, I'm trying to give the characters different “voices”, so that they can be recognized, even without their names being mentioned. I’m not sure I’ll succeed, though.


	2. Chapter 2

Argis had been born and raised in the Reach, in a small village two days' ride from Markarth. When he was younger, his family sometimes travelled to the city, for their goods sold better there. They lived on Gundar's heim, a farm in a small, secluded community most simply referred to as the ‘Cove'. His father, brothers and Argis himself tended to the fields; they chopped wood and fished while his mother and sisters weaved, knitted and did embroidery. Anything to get by. His parents had seven hungry mouths to feed, but somehow they scratched out a living. The villagers were charitable folk, always willing to help. Whenever the crops of a farm failed, those who had plenty would aid those in need. Work was hard, but life was predictable and uneventful. Until the war broke out.

Well, the war didn't just break out – it had always been there, for over a thousand years Nord and Forsworn waged a hard battle over the dominion of the Reach, but eighteen years ago the Forsworn clans had allied, joining into a single army which marched upon Markarth, unrelenting and unstoppable. Markarth fell under the combined forces of the assailants and from there the Forsworn pushed onwards, expanding their rule. Trouble reached the Cove shortly after First Planting, when winter released its icy hold over the country.

Before, the wildlings had been stories the villagers told children to scare them into obedience. Suddenly though, they found the stories had come to live and become a nightmare. Refugees flooded their little town, recounting tales of horror. The Forsworn had conquered Markarth. Those who lost their homes and all their possessions were still counted among the lucky, because they had escaped with their lives. Starving, bands of forlorn refugees became a danger of their own. Not only the Forsworn were roaming the countryside, pillaging and murdering as they went. Only though sheer, dumb luck, did the Cove not stand in their way. But what little food the townsfolk could spare for the desperate, would not last. Their charities were not enough. Soon, they had to turn people away. Argis had watched his father close the door in the face of a crying woman, who begged for scraps for her hungry child. When he turned around, Argis had seen the unshed tears glistening in his father's eyes. It was not the Nord way to turn away from those in need and Gundar was Nord through and through. But what was he to do? His own children had to eat.

That night Argis had snuck out, in search for the woman, his dinner wrapped in a cloth he hid under his woollen coat. He found her in the shelter of their village's small chapel, huddled together with a dirty girl that could not have been older than six. When she heard him approach, the woman startled and looked up at him with trepidation, although Argis could make out the underlying spark of curiosity and subdued hope that shone in her eyes. Argis might have been standing in his town's own chapel, yet he felt oddly out of place. Nervously, he shuffled his feet, scrapping his toes against the floor.

"I... erm," he coughed before continuing "I brought you something." Avoiding the woman's eyes he reached inside his coat and pulled out the food, stretching his hand out towards the refugee.

"Oh," the woman gasped softly.

"It's not much, I know and… ," he risked a look at his offering; bread and some cheese, "... and it got squished," he added, embarrassed and afraid he just made a fool out of himself.

His worries were quenched, however, when he saw the woman smiling up at him.

"Thank you," she said softly and there was a depth of emotion in her voice and eyes that put Argis to shame. It was not fair that she should show such gratitude, for in a couple of hours she would go hungry again, whilst he would return to his family, his home with a warm kitchen and a soft bed. While Argis pondered this silently, the woman shook awake the girl, who squealed with delight at the food and began stuffing chunks of bread into her mouth, swallowing them whole.

"Not so fast, or you will get sick with bellyache," the woman reprimanded her gently, before turning to her benefactor. "Please, sit. I am Agata, and this is Rosa." The girl looked up when she heard her name, but did not stop eating. "And to whom do we owe such kindness?"

"I am Argis, Gundarsson," Argis replied, lowering himself so that he could lean against one of the wooden benches. "I live here." He shrugged, pulling his coat around himself. Not willing to let the silence set in, he added "It was the least I could do."

"It was more than anybody else did," Agata replied, stroking Rosa's hair, who had stopped eating and had laid back down, and Argis did not miss the bitter edge that had crept into her voice. After some quiet contemplation, Agata sighed "Not that I can fault them." She turned her gaze back on Argis. "Nobody seems to have anything left."

To this Argis nodded his head. "Not after winter, they don't."

Skyrim's long winters were hard on the farmers. It meant much of the sowing and harvesting had to be done in a very short time. Those weeks were excruciating, their entire family working from sunup till sunset. By the time Harvest's End arrived, everybody was looking forward to the respite that autumn would bring. Yet in its own way, winter was worse than those days they spent toiling in the summer heat. Because by then all they could do was wait and hope they had gathered enough food, fodder and firewood. When the snow engulfed the entire countryside in a white blanket and the skies turned the colour of tarnished iron they would often sit around the dining table, the fire crackling merrily, illuminating the dim interior of their home. They would talk, the moments of shared closeness almost intimate as they tried to keep the cold and dismal thoughts at bay with laughter and song. And beneath it all, at times so thick it was almost tangible, the undercurrent of dread was forever present.

"We tried helping them, you know? When people first came and asked for our aid, we did. But they never stopped coming." It was no excuse, Argis knew. Still, he wanted to speak in defence of the villagers who were good people, people he had grown up with. He doubted it gave the woman next to him any solace knowing that others had received the help she herself was in such desperate need of.

"Where are you going?" he found himself asking after a little while, clumsily trying to change the topic.

"I have a cousin a couple of miles south of Karthwasten. She… ," at this point Agata's voice faltered for a moment, before she continued. "She will take us in," she said trying to sound convincing, but the smile she gave Argis wavered precariously.

"That's a long way to go," was the only answer that came to his mind.

"We have already made one third of the way," Agata answered, determination, pride and exhaustion marking her words.

Hearing those words, Argis felt excitement bubble up in him. "You're not from Markarth, then!" he exclaimed, eager to hear about the far dwellings of the Reach.

His eagerness showed and Agata chuckled. Such a sweet boy, who had shown more compassion than the majority of people she had come across. She had little doubt that the food he had brought her had been his own meal. Although it was painful to think about her home, she could not blame him for asking. And in a way it felt good, cleansing, to have somebody to talk to, somebody who listed to her and in whose eyes she could detect no judgement, just curiosity and sympathy.

"No, I am not from Markarth. My home was Irisberg... ," she began, the memories now bittersweet. She told him about her own village, about how they had been warned about the Forsworn attack and how she and her daughter had fled, towards Markarth, where they thought they would be kept safe by its strong walls. It was a mistake that had almost become fatal. So they ran once more, turning north where Agata hoped to find shelter with her distant family.

Soon their talk started flowing, becoming less forced after a rather bumpy start and both were glad, if somewhat tense, flinching when their voices resounded too loudly in the empty stillness of the chapel. It never quite became companionable, the topic too distressing to let either relax wholly. Argis did not know how long he stayed, not willing to leave and when the time came when he had to depart, he felt himself being pulled into an impromptu hug.

"Thank you, again."

Argis nodded. "Good luck. Stay safe."

"You too." Agata replied, patting his cheek in a gesture so reminiscent of his own mother, that Argis almost did a double take. "But do not worry. This plight cannot last much longer.  Not with Ulfric on the way."

It was she who had first told Argis of a rumour; namely that Ulfric Stormcloak was assembling an army, taking on any volunteers and, when he finally had the numbers, he would free them of the Forsworn menace. By doing so she had unknowingly kindled a spark, one that years later would be fanned to a roaring blaze. Little did Argis know back then what the future had store for him. Waving one last goodbye, he walked out of the chapel and slowly made his way back home. What the refugee woman had said, struck a chord deep within the boy and that very night a plan began to form in the back of his mind.

Argis was pulled out of his thoughts when he arrived at a familiar door, his feet having carried him here seemingly of their own. Now came the hard part. The front door creaked, but it was still better than the back door, because that was where they kept some livestock. And alarmed pigs made for surprisingly good watchdogs. He thought he had been careful when he had snuck out, avoiding his sleeping siblings and all the loose floorboards in the main room. Carefully, he eased the door open and breathed out a sigh of relief when he was greeted with silence, signifying that everybody was sound asleep. Just as he was making his way past the hearth, where the fire had burned low and the coals were glowing a dark red, his father's deep voice made him jump.

"Where have you been, son?"

The words were accompanied by a few muffled snickers from above and Argis did not need to look up to know that he had an audience.

"I," he considered saying that he had felt ill and went outside to breathe some fresh air, but dropped the idea of lying almost as soon as it came to his mind. He had been raised to know better.

"I was at the chapel," he admitted finally.

Gundar nodded, having suspected as much. "I did not know brother Jansen offered his services at such a late hour," he replied wryly.

"I went to find the refugee woman. The one with the girl, who was at our door earlier. I went to give them some food," the confession bubbled out of him. Argis wondered if his father was mad enough to strike him. He knew he should not have gone behind his family's back, but the only food he had taken was his own. His heart sank when his father spoke.

"So you were not just sneaking around, but willing to let your own family hunger?"

"It was just my share, I didn't take from anyone else, I swear! I can go hungry for one day. They had nothing!" Argis cried, trying to make his father _understand_. He had made his decision and he would stand by it and suffer the consequences if he had to. What he did not know, was that his father understood very well and was testing his son's resolve. After a while Gundar let the stern mask fall away and firmly grasped his son's shoulder.

"I'm proud of you, son. Today you acted as any true Nord should. You have a good heart. Don't lose it. Sometimes life can be harsher than the coldest winter." And after ruffling Argis' hair, Gundar pulled his son into a hug, dispelling all doubts about any ill will. "Now up you go, you'll have an early start tomorrow. You gave your mother quite a scare; you'll better help her around the house."

"Yes, papa," Argis said, flashing his father a smile, before he made his way to the ladder, climbing up to the loft, where all the brothers slept. Their home had two rooms, a living room that included a kitchen and a small pen for animals, and a tiny chamber, where their parents could sleep in privacy. The boys had pallets on the right part of the loft, the left was for supplies. Argis' two sisters slept around the kitchen table, on the benches. The backrests could be rotated to the front, so that the benches would serve as beds.

When Argis reached the top, he found five pairs of eyes trailed on him. So much for stealthy sneaking. "Alright, who tattled?" Argis asked, frowning and trying to sound tough.

"Svenja did. She saw you and went running to mother," one of the twins piped up. Argis thought it was Niels, but there was no way to tell in the dark. Svenja was the youngest of the siblings, her sister Katla the eldest. Argis really couldn't blame his baby sister. At five years of age she was just a child.

"Father was furious when you left." Argis heard Olav's voice from the back. Olav was second eldest. For some reason he and Argis did not get along very well.

"Well he wasn't when I came back," Argis answered.

"Stop it, both of you!" Eric, ever the peacemaker, threw in. "Or I'll knock your heads together." He could do it too, he was not only built like a bull, but also had a temper like one. Before, he had been Argis' staunch protector against his elder brother - a service that Argis, who was starting to outgrow them both, was no longer in any need of. But keeping his idiot brothers from each other's throats was a task that Eric had taken up upon himself.

Before their talk could turn into a full blown argument, a new voice joined in. "What did she say?" This was Katla speaking.

Argis, who had been steeling himself for a quarrel, did not pay her much attention. "Who?"

"The refugee, silly." He could practically hear his sister's smile.

Argis swallowed. "She said it's bad, and it's not just Markarth. The Forsworn are roaming around, and considering we're just four days' walk away, we have been darn lucky." The room had grown so quiet one could hear a pin drop.

Olav broke the silence first "I don't understand why the Jarl lets them do as they please. Why don't the soldiers stop them?"

Argis knew the answer. "They are waiting for Ulfric. He is building an army and when he has one big enough, he will lay siege to Markarth."

Everybody's eyes had grown wide. "So there's gonna be war?" Eric's voice was hushed.

Argis nodded. "Yes." He took a deep breath, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. "And I will sign up."

His statement was met with a chorus of gasps.

"What?" Katla sounded winded.

Eric was more direct. "Are you nuts?!"

Olav, as always, had something to contribute. "You're not old enough."

"I am old enough and soon I'll be taller than you are," Argis snapped.

"You don't even have a girlfriend." It was one of Olav's favourite arguments why he was so much more grown up than his brothers.

"Neither do you."

"But I had one," Olav said haughtily.

"Yes, until you got sick on her," Argis retorted.

"You bloody... "

The rest of what either of them might have said was drowned out in a chorus of shrill laughter. The twins had not been there the day Olav had drunk and danced too much, but the tale of how he had gained and lost a girl in one night was one of their favourites.

The two brothers kept glaring at each other, while Katla rolled her eyes. She was betrothed and did she have to mention it every chance she got? No.

Olav was distracted by the giggling boys. "You little blighters," he hissed at them, but it was harmless banter. Olav _adored_ the twins. Everybody did, through what Mikael and Niels had done to deserve such admiration, nobody knew. Mostly they just tried to get everybody to confuse them and then they would make that person feel guilty about it. Those rascals.

Katla turned her attention back to her brother. "Argis," she began haltingly "are you sure? Do you even know what you are talking about?"

For once in his life he was absolutely sure. Argis looked up and spoke. "And what will we do when the Forsworn get here? When Ulfric fails to defeat them because he did not have enough men, who's gonna keep us safe? "

He stood up, stepping out of their circle and made his way towards his pallet.

A heavy silence engulfed the room. Katla did not doubt that they were all thinking about how easily the refugees' fate could become their own. She looked over to where she knew Argis slept, even though she could not make out much in the darkness. Her younger brother was tall and stubborn, but he was also shy and awkward and he had no experience whatsoever in fighting. None of them did. She just could not picture him holding a sword instead of a pitchfork, let alone actually hurting anyone.

Yet, never before had he sounded so very sure about something. Argis would do what he believed to be right, the incident with the refugee woman had shown as much.

Katla did not sleep that night, choosing to watch over her sleeping family instead, contemplating Argis' words and trying to shake the feeling of impending doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heim means ‘home’ in German. 
> 
> The siblings’ ages: Katla is 22, Olav 20, Erik 19, Argis 16, Mikael and Niels 13, Svenja 5. Their mother's name is Ivanna.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!

When next morning Argis announced his decision, the biggest argument that Gundar's heim had ever witnessed, ensued. Disagreements between family members were inevitable, considering they were nine people living in one house. Therefore, Gundar spent every other day trying to sort out some squabble or another. Because he believed in fairness he first tried to talk some sense into Argis, but when his son would not be swayed by any reasoning, their argument went round and round, until Gundar had the feeling that he was talking to a water wheel. He felt Argis' resolve strengthen and it was fear of losing his son that finally made him flat out refuse Argis' request to enlist with the army.

"You're not going anywhere! There's nothing for you out there, no glory, no honour, nothing."

"There's precious little for me here, but cabbages and potatoes," Argis threw in, deliberately goading his father on. He felt bad about it, but he would not give any ground. Not this time.

"WHAT ABOUT YOUR FAMILY?!" Gundar roared, angry that his son would dismiss them and their livelihood so quickly.

"I'M DOING THIS TO PROTECT MY FAMILY!!" Argis yelled right back at him, matching his father's anger. Never before had a dispute gotten this much out of hand. In fact, it was the first time any of Gundar's children had raised their voice in such a way.

In the following silence Olav's words cracked like a whip. "He's right."

Ivanna, who had been listening to her husband and son arguing, looked up in shock "Olav, surely you do not agree?

"No. He is right," Olav insisted. "We are Nord. We should protect our homes, not cower in fear and hope we might be spared. Because we might not be."

Gundar closed his eyes to ward off the influx of despair. He stood up and bitterly muttered, "Divines, deliver me from the simple-heartedness of youth" and, throwing his hands up, he left the room. In retrospect he knew that he should not have lost his temper, that he should have whittled away Argis' reasons and that a negative response would only make his stubborn son dig his heels in harder. But he could not consent to an undertaking that might be the death of his beloved children. So he did what any responsible father would and sought counsel. He found Jansen behind the chapel, tending to the beds of herbs and vigorously pulling weeds.

Upon hearing his approach, the other man looked up from his work. "My friend," he began, a deep furrow appearung between his brows when he beheld Gundar's distressed expression. "You look like something is troubling you greatly."

Gundar nodded. Assuming that he would have enough time to explain himself later he said quietly, "I would like to call for the town's Circle to meet."

When she saw her husband storm off, Ivanna made her way over to where Argis sat dejected at the kitchen table, head buried in his arms. His siblings had legged it the moment the shouting had started. All except for Olav that was, and even though his elder brother had agreed with him, which was a rare occurrence, he felt no particular inclination to talk to him. He did not stir when somebody settled next to him, but when he felt a gentle hand stroking his hair he looked up warily.

Ivanna pulled back and mustered her son with tender, loving eyes. She knew why her husband had reacted so badly, for the same dread, that of losing a child, also lingered in her heart. Such were the burdens a mother had to bear. Instead of demanding an explanation she asked just one question. "Why?"

Argis closed his eyes for one moment, unknowingly mirroring his father, and thought about the best way to phrase his answer. "For you," he began. "All of you. For Svenja, for Niels and for Mikael. And for you, mum, and for father, so that you'll never have to go through what the refugees did. So that you'll be safe."

"You could die," she said softly.

"I know." Argis answered her just as quietly. "But at least I have a choice."

His mother nodded.

"So you will not stop me?" Argis sounded incredulous.

"Son, I would pick up a sword myself and face down the entire Forsworn horde to stop you. But that decision is not mine to make." Patting Argis on the shoulder she got up and calmly, but firmly told him "Up, now. There's work to be done and I will not have you moping around." Behind her she heard an unhappy moan and the scrape of a wooden chair on the floor.

 

xxxx

 

The meeting began in the afternoon, when the other members of the Circle returned from their work in the fields. The villagers had formed the Circle as a means of discussing problems and making decisions that concerned their entire community. Gundar was hardly surprised when he found out that he was not the only one facing the particular problem that brought him here. As it turned out, plenty of sons and daughters had already expressed their desire to join Ulfric's cause. Now their parents argued back and forth, debating whether they should comply with their wishes. Gundar listened, feeling as if the solid ground beneath his feet had began to tilt as he sat there; until he could stand it no longer.

"I don't care if they hate me until the end of their days, if I can prevent them from going to war, then I will!" Gundar spoke up, interrupting everybody else.

"And how do you intend to do that?" the miller shouted out.

Gundar swallowed. He knew they would ask this particular question and he had thought long and hard. What he came up with hardly made him happy, but it was the only way. "I will join in their stead."

It looked as if this day was meant to be filled with strife and discord, because as soon as he uttered those words, their orderly meeting broke up, when people started arguing agitatedly. Quite some time passed before things quieted down and Jensen, their elected leader, got everybody to sit down again.

"I doubt there is anyone here amongst us who had not already thought of going themselves, so as to spare our beloved ones." Jansen looked around the gathering; there were many muttered acknowledgements and nods.

"But let us think about whether it will truly solve the problem. Let's face it, we're not as young as we used to be. Even if they take us, there's no guarantee they won's still want our sons and daughters. And if they don't, they'll be wanting them all the more."

Another chorus of murmurs erupted, before the innkeeper addressed the meeting. "Better let them volunteer than have the soldiers drag them off in chains. I hear the Jarl's patience is at an end, that he's been forcing people into service and shaming their families, if not outright branding them as traitors. He won't overlook us forever. Friends, I don't think there's an easy way out of this."

 

xxxx

 

Afterwards, watching the sun set and turn the sky and clouds a vivid pink, even as all colour slowly bled out from the world, Gundar sat slumped on a roughly hewn bench that stood alongside the house. He had not mustered the energy to face his family, instead wondering how it had come to this.

Eric found his father in his, as he called it, favourite thinking place; staring into space.

Gundar had not looked up when he heard footsteps approach on gravel, he did not have to. It was Eric, who carefully lowered himself beside him, approaching as someone would a wild animal.

"Are you intending to leave too?" Gundar asked, defeated.

"Somebody's got to keep those two blockheads from killing each other when the army puts swords in their hands."

In spite of himself, Gundar could not suppress a soft chuckle. For once it was Eric being the sensible one. It seemed his world had turned upside-down overnight. His quiet son was showing temper, while his hot-headed brother was arguing reason. Gundar heaved himself to his feet, feeling his age keenly on this day. Turning to Eric, he stated "It turns out that if I do not let you go, the recruiters will most likely make you. But I will be damned if I allow you to be off before your sister's wedding."

Erik had expected as much and frankly, he was not very enthusiastic about the idea of leaving. Rising as well he walked up to his father. "Let's go inside and tell them, shall we?"

xxxx

 

Secretly, Argis was glad that their departure had been postponed. Katla's wedding was to take place at the end of Rain's Hand, giving him almost a month's time to get used to the idea that he truly would leave home. Time that passed entirely too quickly. When the day of the wedding drew near, their entire village helped with the preparations. The night before everybody was casting nervous glances towards the heavens, but the stars shone bright and clear, promising good weather for the morrow. When morning dawned sunny and cloudless, everybody breathed a sigh of relief. As most villagers were farmers, they were not responsible to anyone, except for themselves and so many took at least a part of their day off.

Argis had not seen his sister since breakfast, at the end of which Ivanna had shooed them all out of the house to have some time with her daughter. Whatever women did before marriage, it took a long time and it probably involved too much skirts and hair braiding to be of any interest to Argis. So he made his way to one of the tables and tried to join in with the talk and laughter, even though his heart wasn't really in it.

Neither Katla nor her husband would join the army, for somebody had to stay and help with the farm. It would be an arduous year without the brothers, even though Katla's husband would be there to help out.

In the afternoon brother Jansen held the ceremony and afterwards there was food and drink, songs and dances. As the Cove celebrated the happy occasion, Argis could not help but notice that the joy was dampened by the knowledge that this was also goodbye. Some boys and miller Matje's eldest daughter had already set out, but most had chosen to stay for a while longer. Tension hung in the air and it was evident by the way people tried to drink it away, by how the music sometimes was too loud and the laughter too shrill.

After a night of merrymaking dawn arrived all too soon and Argis slung the knapsack he had packed and repacked on a daily basis for nearly a month now over his shoulder. In sharp contrast to yesterday's drinking, farewell was a sober affair. Tears were shed as everybody hugged and their parents made Argis and his brothers swear they would be careful. Eric had to promise Gundar to look after his little brother and to keep Argis and Olav from fighting each other.

And finally they set out, waving a last goodbye to Ivanna, who stood in the doorway with Svenja. The little girl clung to her mother's skirts and stared at them wide-eyed. "Mama, where are they going?" When there was no response, she looked up at her mother and tugged at her skirt. "Where are Argis and Eric and Olav going, mama?"

"To fight the bad men," Ivanna answered, not looking away from the dwindling forms of her sons for even a moment, trying to memorize every detail and to preserve it, firmly believing that she could stave off even the inevitable by sheer force of will.

"When will they come back?"

"I don't know, child. I don't know."


	4. Chapter 4

At first the brothers were excited to journey, but their initial eagerness wore off when the weather turned foul. Argis was wet, cold and altogether miserable as he lay on the hard ground that was slowly turning into mud. They had travelled north, in the direction of Karthwasten, but before they could reach the town they had crossed the river Karth, heading east. Ulfric's army was encamped on the great plains between Rorikstaed and the mountains that marked the border of the Reach. It was the farthest any of them had ever been from home and Argis had to tell himself that no, he was not homesick. Because brave warriors surely did not long for their beds and mother's cooking, and he was about to become one. A warrior, though Argis was not so sure about the 'brave' part.

On the road they encountered many others going in the same direction.Ulfric's camp was like a maelstrom, pulling in everyone who dared to venture too close. Nonetheless Argis was glad when after a long journey they finally arrived. The sight that greeted them stole their breath away. A sea of tents rose before them, bigger than anything they could have imagined and dwarfing even Markarth in size. The boys took their time to just stand and stare at it all. The hundreds, if not thousands tents were arranged into precise squares with big roads and narrow alleyways lying between them. Horses stood in corrals while livestock grazed outside the camp in flocks of a size that made Argis' head spin.

This was no mere camp, it was a city, and it hummed with life. Argis stretched his neck trying to glimpse it all, while Erik swore in terms that would make his father slap him upside the head. There were messengers running around while carriages continued to pour in and out of the gates. Soldiers marched past, their drill sargents bellowing orders. After the quiet of the road the clamour was terrible. Above the camp, emanating from hundreds of campfires, a cloud of dark smoke hung.

When Argis and his brothers approached the gates they were stopped by two guards. "Hold up there, you. State your business," one of them said, lazily chewing on a toothpick.

"We want to join Ulfric. To fight the Forsworn," Olav answered him.

"Aye. Ya came to the right place, then. See that big blue tent over there? That's where you'll be wanting to go. Just follow the main road"

Argis looked over to where the soldier had pointed and nodded his thanks before walking up to the gates. 'This was it,' he thought, the point from which there was no return. He passed the ditch and a low palisade wall and slowly strode to the middle of the camp, gawking as he went. In passing he noticed that the road he walked upon was made from rough cobblestones, thus preventing the horses and people from trampling it into a mire. The brothers reached the blue tent and a guard waved them through the open flap with barely a glance. Behind a sturdy oaken table littered with papers a sour faced man sat. When he heard them enter he looked up from his work and glared at Argis. "Names and village," he barked at them.

"Argis Gundarsson," Argis said and made a motion with his hand to encompass his brothers "We are from the Cove."

"The Cove, you say? Heard 'bout you before. Got ourselves some volunteers from there. Did you volunteer?"

"Yes, Sir. We all did."

Leaning over his desk the Nord looked them over carefully. They had come in unaccompanied by any soldiers and they did not look half as desolated as the other farm boys sitting behind him. Argis saw the man's dour demeanour lessen for a moment as he exclaimed "Well, well, it looks like Skyrim has some true sons after all," while throwing a disparaging glance at the other recruits. Motioning to the benches he told the brothers, "Best sit yer arses down, the Captain will be here by midday to sort you lot out," and without a further glance at the recruits he went back to studying his reports.

The wait was long and boring; Argis' backside going numb from the hard seat, so he was glad when there was a small commotion as a messenger came in and quietly talked to the Nord in charge, who promptly abandoned his work. Standing up he addressed the forty or so recruits. "Get up and follow me."

They were led to a small square between the tents, where the Nord told them to line up, placing Argis, Eric and Olav at the left end of the line and somewhat apart from the others, a special place reserved for volunteers. They did not have to wait long this time for the Captain to appear. He was a bulky man, clad in shining armour with a bear pelt hanging from his shoulders.

“For heaven's sake, stand still you useless clods!” the man from the tent bellowed at them when a few recruits nervously shuffled their feet and craned their necks.  “And look straight ahead!”  
  
Considering how nervous Argis was at first, the sorting proved to be a surprisingly uninteresting matter.  The Captain walked alongside their line, calling out numbers and names to the man at his side, who noted it all down.  He made his way along the line without breaking his stride, down to where Olav stood.  
  
"Fourth Wing."   Then it was Eric's turn.  "Put him in the defence."  
  
"Where?"  
  
"Anywhere!"  
  
When the Captain reached Argis he opened his mouth, closed it and stopped.  Squinting at Argis, who suddenly had to fight the urge to fidget, the man enquired, "How old are you, boy?"  
  
"Six-and-ten, sir," Argis answered.

"Are these your brothers?" The Captain indicated Olav and Eric with a dip of his head.

Argis nodded. "Yes, Sir."

The Captain studied him for a while longer before turning to his scribe. "Put him in with the Heavies." He then continued on his way, leaving behind a confused and admittedly, slightly scared Argis.

The scribe remained and oversaw their _distribution_. It was so well organized and exact, Argis had a disturbing vision of himself being nothing but crop. He ended up with Lieutenant Carsten, a man with grey hair and eyes cold as steel, who did not seem very impressed with his charge. "Captain must've seen something in you," he grumbled as he led Argis to his quarters, briefing him on his duties and on the Second Heavy Infantry Regiment that Argis now was a part of.

Training began early next morning and Argis saw why the Lieutenant had been so very unenthusiastic. Argis must have been the youngest member of the two hundred or so recruits. It was a small mercy that there were others who had never held a sword in their hands before. At first they were instructed how to take proper care of arms and armour. They proceeded by learning the basics of fighting with sword and shield, their training accompanied by rigorous exercises meant to increase their strength and endurance. Argis felt like he was being destroyed as he fell into his cot each evening, bone weary and every part of his body aching. When their taskmaster announced they would forgo weapons training in favour of marching drills he sorely needed the respite. The recruits spent the next couple of days learning various battle and marching formations, as they at first haphazardly tried to keep up with Carsten's bellowed orders.

Argis had precious little free time and most of it he spent resting. One day though he sought out his brothers, whom he had not seen in over a month now. He found Eric standing guard, equipped with a shield and a spear. Eric's training had mostly consisted of his trainers telling him to keep the shield up and the spear aimed at his enemies. Olav somehow had made it into the cavalry and Argis felt relieved that his brother was not here when he told Eric that by now their brother's head must have swollen so badly no helmet would fit him.

Two months into Argis' training the main bulk of the army left for Markarth. Ulfric's intention was to starve out the Forsworn before chancing a direct attack. Because the city had been well supplied when taken, the enemy would be able to hold out for a long time.

Argis remained behind. Their regiment continued to drill until everybody found their place and their lines were no longer crooked. That was when Carsten took them out, away from the training grounds and accompanied by a horse drawn cart full with provision they set out over the plains. They carried only light gear and it had not seemed very strenuous at first, though after several days their backpacks turned into heavy burdens. At night the recruits would sit around the campfires and massage their sore feet, too tired to talk. They walked, trained, resupplied and then they walked some more.

Thus the months passed until almost a year after he had set out from home, Argis found himself marching in lock-step with his comrades towards Markarth whilst chatting merrily. He wore armour, though he would have to get it adjusted, as the breastplate was somewhat tight around his chest. It was nothing new; he had paid the blacksmith three visits already. His entire gear weighted a full hundred pounds, but he no longer felt the weight, even as their regiment marched an average of twenty miles per day. Not that they could sleep and rest once they reached their destination. Before anything else, they would make a suitable camp, which meant digging a trench and fortifying it with stakes they carried with them. They had to dig latrines, chop firewood, cook, raise their tents and clean their armour. Of course they continued to practice swordfighting.

 

Argis heard the army long before he saw it. By now it was an almost familiar sight, though the sheer size of it did not cease to amaze him. Later, he learned that engineers had built siege engines in order to sap the walls, when it had become evident that undermining of the city's walls was impossible due to Markarth being built on solid stone. They were the last group to arrive. That night they celebrated the official end of being recruits, for they were soldiers now. Their carousing was fuelled by copious amounts of ale, a gift from their commander. If they wanted to get inebriated they would have to do so now, as drunkenness on the eve of battle would not be tolerated. Argis joined the revelry, but instead of drinking himself into oblivion, he chose to search out his brothers. He spend a surprisingly peaceful evening with Eric and Olav, but while everyone seemed calm on the outside, Argis felt like he had swallowed hot coals. Stomach churning, he stayed up late until fatigue overwhelmed him and he fell asleep.

One more day.

When Carsten asked him to run a few errands on the following morning, Argis was glad, for the task would at least occupy his body, if not his mind.

Evening arrived all too soon and Lieutenant Carsten had them line up on the main drill ground before addressing both regiments of ‘Heavies'. It was the first time they were not subjected to his disdain and there might even have been a hint of pride in his voice as he spoke.

"Tomorrow there will be battle, but is not you who should fear that day, but the scum hiding in Markarth. We will flush those cowards, who will not meet us in open combat out, like the vermin they are. Any of you who fall, know that your spirits will live on forever in Sovngarde. Fight bravely and remember that your brothers and sisters in arms will stand beside you! Prove me right in saying that you are the bloody best unit in this army!"

This pronouncement was greeted with deafening cheers.

"Tomorrow, when the wall of Markarth falls, the First and Second heavy Infantry Regiment will have to honour to be the first ones through the breach."

In the silence that followed somebody whispered, "Fuck me sideways." Argis bit his tongue, no longer sure whether he made the right decision by leaving home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To battle!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter is part of why this story is rated M!

At first light the sound of trumpets rang out over the valley, signifying the beginning of a series of events that would later be remembered in history as the Markarth Incident.

For Argis it meant that the waiting was finally over. His day started like any other, as he relieved himself, donned his armour and inspected his sword one last time. Everything was in order and the routine of handling his gear helped to calm him down and maintain his focus. He had seen the blacksmith about his breastplate yesterday and now it fit like a glove. The edge of his blade was sharp and smooth, but strong. It was time.

He made his way to where his regiment was assembling, taking up his position in the ranks. When the entire army had gathered, an eerie hush settled over the camp, the silence grating on everyone's already frayed nerves. Argis held his breath until he heard the first deep, rolling booms of the drums, the sound washing over him, quickening his heartbeat and releasing him from his stasis.

The commanding officers took up their positions, Lieutenant Carsten shouting for them to "ADVANCE!"

A tremor ran through the ranks and the soldiers lurched forward, but quickly found their pace as they slowly approached a segment of the wall that looked decidedly more damaged than the rest. From atop the walls Argis could hear the enemy jeer and throw insults at them, while they brandished their weapons.

 

The Forsworn did not fire at them, not yet, curious as to what the Nords intended to do. Their wall was weakened yes, but it still stood and the soldiers did not have any ladders. The largest part of the soldiers stopped outside of the reach of their inferior bows, but two groups boldly moved on.

Ulfric's plan of starving them out had not entirely succeeded. They were weakened but they had managed to smuggle sufficient amounts food into the city through the mountains. Ulfric had had his troubles in laying the siege, because Markarth was surrounded by mountains on three sides. While soldiers patrolled the paths, there was not enough space for them to form in mass, which rendered them vulnerable to attacks. The Forsworn had survived and the Nord were mistaken if they thought they would give up easily. And while the force defending Markarth was formidable, the greatest part of the Reachmen warriors hid in the surrounding valleys, ready to storm forward and fall into Ulfric's back, as soon as the soldiers turned all their attention towards Markarth. It would be a glorious day to see the Nords break upon their walls as water breaks upon rocks.

Just as the Forsworn commander was about to give the order to open fire, he saw something roll from amongst the soldiers that he at first believed to be a battering ram. It looked almost like a miniature siege tower, it was so heavily reinforced; however its purpose not to attack, but to protect the one walking beneath it: Ulfric Stormcloak.

 

The walk up to the wall dragged on for what seemed like an eternity to Argis. For a long time nothing happened, but then a shout was heard from the battlements and the Forsworn assaulted them, not just with arrows and crossbow bolts, but also pelting them with stones. The first screams rang out as soldiers fell, some never to rise again. Argis held his shield up and tried hard not to look, not to think that there were people _dying_ around him and that he could easily be one of the shrieking, writhing lumps on the ground.

The Forsworn continued to shower them with deadly volleys, thinning out their ranks, but not overly so and they reached the wall, safeguarding Ulfric's stronghold with body and shield. Ulfric would bring the wall down, though nobody knew how. From where he stood in the back, Argis did not see the Jarl of Windhelm, but he was glad to be in the rear nonetheless, as their enemies had started pouring boiling oil and pitch on the soldiers amassed beneath them. The piercing screams of the wounded made Argis want to drop his shield and hold his ears closed, except that his shield was the only thing that kept him from suffering a similar fate.

Whatever Ulfric was doing, he took his sweet time about it, but suddenly a thunderous voice rose from the front, drowning out the twangs of bowstrings and the wails of the wounded for one moment. The words were of a language unknown to Argis, but they carried a terrible power and he watched in disbelief as a part of the wall gave way, crumbling and burying both friend and foe beneath a cascade of boulders. Yells of surprise and dismay arose from the Forsworn defenders.

The Nords answered with their own fierce battle cries before storming the gap at the same time as Ulfric's tower slowly made its way back towards the bulk of the forces. Argis had no choice but to charge alongside his comrades or otherwise risk being trampled to death. He added his voice to that of the others, lowering his shield so that he could see where he was going, and instinctively stooped, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. They met little resistance and were able to regroup hurriedly once they were through the breach.

Closing their ranks they marched onwards, shields locked against the first wave of assailants. Argis felt the clash as their ranks trembled and buckled, but they held fast and the soldiers were able to push forward, driving the enemy before them and towards Markarth's main street. Argis had yet to do any active fighting and from his position he was not able to see what lay before him, but he felt it when their advance came to a sudden stop.

Instead of walking through the street they found themselves before a wall. A second wall. A second wall that Markarth did not have. Except that it did. It rose up before them with only a gap wide enough for two men to pass through; and it was bristling with Forsworn. Behind them their enemy abandoned the main wall as war horns rang out and a terrible clamour sounded from outside the city.

They were trapped.

And then all hell broke loose.

 

xxxx

 

When the first rows of Nords dropped under a volley of arrows, Argis suddenly found himself in the front, stumbling over the bodies of his fallen friends, with his first opponent swinging his sword at Argis' face. Training took over and he took a step back, assuming a sideways stance to buy himself some time and because it made him a smaller target. The Forsworn charged him head-on, his serrated blade descending in a wide arc. Wide enough for Argis to step forward, into the attack and to smash his shield into the surprised man, whose blade bounced off the wood and bit deep into its owner's neck. Argis watched in a mix of curiosity and horror as the man let go of his sword in favour of clutching his neck, which was spurting blood in a crimson torrent. The jagged edge had ripped open the Reachman's artery and Argis had never thought that there was so much blood in a human being. For a fraction of a second he forgot about the battle, as he watched the man at his feet die, while a distant part of his mind whispered that it was just like slaughtering one of the farm animals. The man's eyes rolled with the same panic and incomprehension and even his final grunts could be mistaken for those of a sow.

Argis had made his first kill. Before he could fully grasp the reality of it, he had to move once again. A Forsworn woman was aiming her bow at him and he was lucky to raise his shield in time, the impact of the arrow rocking him back and knocking his shield painfully against his jaw. He did not want to fight her, but he did; his lieutenant's voice echoing in his head. _Always go for the kill_. He shattered her skull, even as he thought that she was somebody's daughter. A sister, maybe a mother. He heard himself scream, but he was hardly the only one, the noise around him was a deafening cacophony of clashing weapons and shouting

An explosion to his right had Argis looking around. He saw an impressive figure with a headdress made from a dear's skull standing on the wall, shooting balls of fire at them. A cry of ‘briarheart’ went up and the stench of burned flesh and hair filled the air. Argis felt his eyes burn and water from the acrid fumes, or maybe it was from seeing his regiment, his comrades, some who had been fast friends, massacred. The enemy came on, merciless and unyielding and Argis lost himself in the fighting, his only coherent thought ‘ _I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna die..._ ’ running through his head like a prayer.

He hung onto it, like a drowning men clings to flotsam, repeating it over and over in his head, and if he was yelling it at the top of his lungs, he could not tell. When next he risked looking around, maybe a tenth of their force was still standing, but still no reinforcements arrived to help them out of their dire straits. The magic attacks had stopped some time ago, so somebody must have gotten through to the briarheart. A rider chose that very moment to charge through the breach. He wore the telltale yellow attire of a messenger, but instead of riding up to them, the man toppled from his mount, not far from where Argis stood. His clothes were bloodied.

The horse, riddled with arrows, tottered a few steps further before it heavily collapsed to the ground, where it continued to kick feebly.

Argis made his way over to where the man was lying and turned him around. The messenger's mouth moved, though Argis did not hear the whispered words.

"What?" Argis asked, leaning in and bringing his ear to the man's mouth to hear better.

"Ret... ret... retr," was the only thing the messenger got out between death rattles.

"What?" Argis bellowed and shook him, desperate to get an answer, but the other man did not get any further. Blood poured out of his mouth and dribbled down his chin as his eyes rolled back in his head to stare sightlessly at the sky.

"What did he say?!" a shrill voice enquired. Argis recognized Marta, a woman from his regiment

He stared horrified at the corpse he held, as despair sank in. "I don't know," he whispered hoarsely.

Most of the Forsworn from the main wall had been killed, but there was a never-ending stream of them pouring through the gap of the second wall. Somebody had to stop them. As if in a trance, Argis staggered up and carefully walked towards the gap. The footing was treacherous, because the once solid ground had turned into an ankle-deep muck of blood, piss and feces, littered with body parts and corpses. In their own way the dead were better than the wounded, once strong men and women who now shrieked for their mothers and grasped for Argis’ ankles, as if his ruined boots somehow offered them salvation. Argis closed his heart against the wails, but there was no way to close his eyes to the sights, though the tears streaming down his face blurred his vision somewhat. He passed one of his friends, who sat leaning against the wall, his abdomen ripped open and guts lying about like a gruesome display at the butcher's, even as the man was staring at them disbelievingly. He left behind many others, their once familiar faces distorted by either death or agony.

With a war cry worthy of Ysgramor himself, Argis launched himself at the Forsworn, wanting nothing but to take vengeance upon those responsible for this carnage. He sent one of his adversaries sprawling as he knocked into him, stabbing his sword through the man's chest. Luck was not with him, because his blade got stuck. Stepping on the man for leverage, he wrenched it out by brute force, ripping a part of the bawling man's ribcage out with it. He would never have parried the second Forsworn's attack, but thankfully a familiar figure appeared beside him. Marta, bless her, had come to his aid.

By now Argis's shield was in tatters and when he blocked a particularly powerful stroke, it fell apart completely. Finding himself without a means of defence, Argis cursed vividly, as he hastily beat a retreat, but his feet tangled in something and he was sent sprawling. Of all things Argis had managed to stumble across the dead horse. Above him he heard the advancing Reachman laugh out. Struggling wildly, but unsuccessfully to get up, he stilled when one of his flailing hands connected with something beneath the dirt. He saw his adversary come to a stand above him and raise his blade. As it descended, he tugged with all his strength, managing to wrench a pavise from the sludge and to knock aside the Forsworn man’s sword and judging by the sound, to break his hand. Argis slashed his sword at him, because the angle was wrong for stabbing. The blow would have disembowelled his attacker, but Argis' sword was blunted so badly, it was little better than a club. He used it as such, continuing to rain blows down upon the Reachman, until his foe stopped moving.

Crawling out of the muck on all fours, Argis glanced at his new shield. It was painted yellow and had probably belonged to the messenger. Not that it had done him much good. Looking around he felt panic rise in his chest.

It was just him and Marta left.

Argis was on the defensive against a Forsworn man wielding two swords, when he saw a second enemy trying to circle him. Marta was busy fighting somewhere out of his sight.

"KILL HIM," Argis roared at her, because there was no way he could defend himself against two attackers, hard-pressed as he was already. "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

At first it seemed that she would not be able to disengage, but she managed to cut her adversary down, before she surprised the Forsworn whose entire focus was on Argis. Marta's cry of triumph was cut short, turning into a wet gurgle as a crossbow bolt ripped out her throat. Fixing beseeching eyes on Argis, she who had saved his live died, as he could do nothing in return to help her.

Now he was truly alone.

He heaved his pavise up and a second crossbow bold punched through the leather and wood, the tip protruding half an inch from Argis' eye. If he let the marksman have another shot, chances were he would not survive it. Crying his defiance in the face of his enemies, he rushed through the gap, going after the shooter. How long he fought he did not know, but while he had felt exhausted before, now he was dead tired. Argis' sword hand shook and he could no longer lift the heavy shield. When he slipped and fell, he had no strength left to get up. "What was the point of fighting anyway?" he thought as he lay in the bloody mire that he himself would soon become a part of. He stared up at the Forsworn advancing at him, knowing that he was looking at his death.

Therefore, it was in utter disbelief as he watched his attacker's head disintegrate beneath a powerful blow. The corpse fell on him, trapping him under its weight, until he managed to kick himself free.

Rescue had come in the form of a lanky, light blonde youth who kept the Reachman at distance by flailing around with two axes like a madman; though it was evident he had no inkling about fighting. At first Argis thought he was hallucinating or that maybe some saint had come to spirit him off to Sovngarde. Only he did not think that ghosts would shout at him to "Get his damned, bloody, sodden arse up and _fight_!!"

 

xxxx

 

Ulfric Stormcloak calmly watched the battle that waged around him. When the Reachmen stormed at them from behind, it did not come as a surprise to him. He had planned ahead, and put the recruits from the defensive forces in the back. It meant that most of those recruits would pay with their lives, but while it was unfortunate, he would not risk the lives of fully-trained, seasoned warriors. Thus, he held his regular troops back and let the Forsworn wear themselves out before he ordered his soldiers to attack one flank, whilst he himself led the cavalry charge against the other. Between themselves they had managed to crush the Forsworn.

But he had not forgotten the infantry within the city. Ulfric sent a messenger to tell them to retreat, but so far, none had come out and he knew that something must have gone terribly wrong.

With the army at his back he marched into Markarth only to find himself taken aback. It was not the bloodbath that shocked him, however, nor the second wall, but the sight of a single soldier holding his own against a number of Forsworn. The warrior's hair might have been blonde, but grime and blood had stained it a reddish brown. In fact, there was not much of him visible beneath the dirt, covered as he was from head to toes in blood.

"For the Nord!" Ulfric bellowed, as he charged the remaining Forsworn, pleased to see when they drew back in fear, as they should. Soon he realized that it was not him they retreated from, but the lone warrior, who was roaring some garbled nonsense, half of which consisted of cures, at the top of his lungs, crying at the same time as he wielded his sword with such frenzy, Ulfric half believed him to be possessed.

When the last Reachman attacked, the power of Argis' counterattack took off half of his head. The remaining Forsworn pointed at him, shouting ‘laoch bás’, bringer of death, _demon,_ and fleeing before his wrath. Argis would have collapsed then and there, had not somebody held him up.

Seeing that the warrior was not as alone as Ulfric had at first believed him to be, he nonetheless turned to the man at his side. "Lieutenant, take care of him."

"Yes, sir," answered the man, whose name was Carsten. He approached the soldier, who was half-carried, half-dragged by a tall blonde youth. Carsten recognized the warrior; he had been the last to join the second regiment.

"Here, let me help you, lad," he told the struggling boy. Together they managed to get Argis away from the carnage, and into an abandoned, if roofless house, where he broke down in a sobbing mess.

"I'll be back soon, watch over him," Carsten said to his helper, before running out of the house. He had to find some things and no time to lose. Extreme fatigue and shock could kill a man as easily as an untreated wound.

 

Back in the ruin of a house Argis felt somebody sink down next to him.

"Hey, it's over," his companion said in such a thick brogue that Argis stared at him, uncomprehending. Friendly blue eyes looked back at him. Seeing the wide-eyed look the soldier gave him, even as he heavily gulped for air, the blonde tried again. "It's over, and you're alive. You're fine," he said, patting the panicked man's shoulder. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Argis," Argis croaked out, his throat feeling as if it was on fire.

"I'm Hákan. Oh, look, there's your friend," the boy named Hákan told Argis, not knowing that Carsten was Argis' commander, not his friend.

The lieutenant entered, carrying a heavy bundle under his arms, out of which he pulled out a set of clean clothes, a pallet and a heavy woollen blanket, as well as several flasks and a loaf of bread. "I have to join Ulfric. You'll keep an eye on him, won't you?" Carsten asked Hákan, who nodded mutely.

Argis wanted nothing more than to get out of his garments, that were soiled in more ways than one, but his hands shook so badly, he could not get his armour's straps open.

"Here, let me help you," Hákan said and Argis felt himself being undressed like he was some infant or an imbecile. He could not muster the energy to care, let alone protest and he did feel a thousandfold better once he put on the clean clothing. Hákan uncorked one of the flasks and passed it to him and Argis drank deeply, only now noticing how thirsty he had been, how parched his throat felt. The water had a herbal, somewhat bitter taste, but right now it was the most delicious thing to him.

There were screams coming from further inside the city, but he was so tired, he slumped against the wall and closed his eyes. The last thing Argis knew was that he was covered by a thick, warm blanket.

 

xxxx

 

The killing did not stop when the battle was over. As the last rays of sunlight glinted off their polished armour, soldiers executed every able bodied man and woman who did not pick up arms against the remaining Forsworn. On that day the streets of Markarth ran red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did not just manage to turn you away from this story. Most of it won't be as brutal, but I really wanted to give a realistic impression of war. And frankly, I was quite fed up with all that glorious-battle-decapitating-enemies-with-one-strike nonsense. So I hope you're still with me and will continue to read, because that's what keeps me writing. =)


	6. Chapter 6

Argis blearily opened his eyes, blinking against the bright light. The sun was high in the sky and his first thought was that he had overslept and that Carsten was going to skin him. He did not get much further, because then he _remembered_ and he felt like he was drowning in the tidal wave of memories that washed over him, just as the sea washes over the unwary. Argis shot upright, looking around himself frantically. He was inside a house, although it wasn't much of one, considering it was missing the roof. He did not recall how he got there.

"I see you're awake," a voice from the corner said, making him jump. "It's 'bout time, too."

It was the boy speaking, the one who had saved his life. Hákan, Argis thought and felt pathetic by how much comforted he was by the other's presence. Argis tried to speak, but his throat was so abused, he could not get a sound out.

Hákan continued, oblivious to Argis' attempts of speech, in such a thick accent, Argis understood only about one third of what he was saying. "You gave us quite a scare, you know? Your commander, the Gray One that is, told me to watch over you, so I did. He brought you a sleeping draught that I was supposed to give to you should you have trouble sleeping. ‘Cept I kind of got the flasks mixed up and you drank the whole lot of it instead of the water. Commander was pretty pissed too, but he said there was nothin’ for it, but to wait it out. You were out for two days, did you know?" He grinned at Argis like being unconscious for such a length of time was some great accomplishment. "Oh, and I almost forgot. He said he wanted to see you when you came around, which you just did."

Hákan walked over and helped a dumbfound Argis to his feet. "Here, you might want to drink this. It's just water this time." Argis happily accepted the water, though upon hearing how his friend had managed to drug him once he could not help but be somewhat suspicious.

We better get goin', I don't fancy getting another scolding," Hákan continued and motioned for Argis to follow him. Argis did so without protest. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton and he had yet to have a single coherent thought. Something was wrong with eyes too, because the afternoon light was so harsh he had to shield his face with his arm. His right arm, as could not lift his left. It spiked a small spark of curiosity within Argis, but it was soon quenched when a hand grabbed his wrist and steered him along. Argis' movements were sluggish and he felt strangely detached from everything that was going around him, almost as if he was drunk. They made their way through the city and finally Hákan knocked on a door that opened and Argis stepped into a blessedly dim interior.

"Divines, he looks half-asleep," Carsten said as Argis lethargically blinked up at him. Argis remembered that there was something important about the man, but he did not care and even as his mind whispered to _salute_ , his body disobeyed.

Turning back to Hákan the lieutenant frowned. "Did he eat anything before you dragged him here?"

The blonde looked abashed. "Erm, no."

Sighing Carsten manoeuvred Argis to a table and put a steaming bowl of something in front of him ordering him to "eat!" in a tone that brooked no argument. Argis did not much care for the soup, except that it was liquid and did not aggrieve his throat too much, as he methodically started to spoon it up.

"Is there anything I can do?" Hákan asked from where he was hovering in the doorway

"Thank you boy, you did quite enough. It seems a wonder Argis survived your ministrations," Carsten ground out and would have shoved the door closed in the boy's face. Instead he added "You can go find a bathtub, bring it here and fill it up with hot water." The blonde nodded mutely and turned to leave, but a soft rasp stopped him.

"Hákan," Agris got out, despite his throat feeling like he had a load of iron filings stuck in it. "Thank you."

Instantly the hangdog expression changed into a dazzling smile and Hákan waved Argis goodbye and practically skipped down the street, whistling as he went.

"He drugs, starves and drags you around whilst you're barely conscious and you thank him for it?" Carsten sounded incredulous.

"He saved my life," Argis whispered, sincere though he could barely muster the energy to keep his eyes open.

"Did he now?" the lieutenant looked thoughtful, but did not comment further.

For the next couple of hours Argis fitfully slept off the last traces of the sleeping potion. When he awoke, Carsten was nowhere in sight, but there was a full bathtub awaiting him and Argis did not waste any time before he made good use of it. It took him what seemed like hours to get the dirt and grime off and out of his hair, which was tangled so badly, he almost despaired trying to comb it out. In the end, cutting out the worst snarls did the trick. By the time he was finished the water had turned from lukewarm to cold and a murky brown in colour.

In the meantime the lieutenant returned, carrying in a big chest. Seeing Argis sit on the bed, a somewhat forlorn look at his face, Carsten sat down next to him.

"How are you feeling, son?"

Argis must have looked as shocked as he felt. For a year the only way Carsten had addressed his charges was ‘recruit’ or ‘boy’. But Argis saw only genuine concern in the lieutenant's eyes. How did he feel? Frankly, he did not know himself. For a year he had trained for the confrontation with the Forsworn, though nothing had prepared him for what he had faced in battle. Mulling over the other man's question he finally asked shakily "What am I going to do now?"

Carsten sighed It would be a shame to let Argis fall into the dark chasm of hopelessness and drink that had claimed so many warriors already, those who were not able to forget, yet not ready to move on.

"As a man who's seen more war than peace, let me give you some advice, son. Life goes on. Don't waste time looking behind; nothing's gonna change the past. Find a purpose, something you like, something that makes you happy and keep at it. Time will help. "

It was good counsel, Argis thought, except for one minor detail. "I'm a farmer. What purpose will I find?" After some contemplation he softly added "I don't think I can go back and live like all of this has never happened."

"Maybe you won't have to." When he caught sight of the confused look on Argis' face, the lieutenant shook his head. "That's all I can say for now. Tomorrow there will be a tribute to all those who distinguished themselves on the field of battle. You will receive special honors for holding the gap against the enemy. He gave the chest a small kick adding "You'll find suitable clothes and armour in here. Don't get used to them though, they're just for show. "

"You know?"

Chuckling, Carsten replied "I'm afraid everyone knows. You're a hero now. Your friend did not waste any time in spreading the word around, either. Story gets more embellished anytime I hear it."

"Oh." Argis had no idea how to respond. He should be happy and proud, right? Instead, he felt vaguely sick. There had been nothing heroic in his struggle to survive, nor in how his friends had been butchered.

"I don't feel like a hero."

"I bet you don't." There was an uncomfortable silence, before Carsten tried to lighten the mood. "Ulfric wanted to address the soldiers two days ago, but we had to postpone the ceremony, as the man of the hour was out cold."

"I'm sorry."

Carsten snorted, the whole accident with Argis downing the entire sleeping potion was rather amusing. "Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong. I suggest you get some more rest now. Tomorrow at midday I will escort you. And tell ‘the blonde pain in the arse’, he's to come, too. There's something for him in the chest as well."

 

On the morning of the next day Argis was spared the task of looking for Hákan, because he came to pay Argis a visit, greeting Argis with his customary grin.

"You're lookin' better. But that's not sayin' much, you could hardly look worse. Honestly, I've seen a drowned rat it a gutter and it had been a more cheerful sight. Hey, did you know there's a parade today? Are you going? Do you think they'll let me watch?

Argis had to smile at the endless chatter. He surprised the boy by saying that yes, he did know there was a parade, yes, he was going and Hákan was coming with him. Their conversation was mostly one-sided, a fact that neither of them seemed to mind, though at last Argis' curiosity got the better of him.

"Where did you come from?"

"I live here, in Markarth." Hákan gave Argis a look that clearly said that it was a dumb question.

"No, I meant… ," Argis faltered for a moment under the onslaught of memories "...I meant on the day of the battle."

"Oh." Hákan contemplated what to say before resuming "I saw you from where I live. The soldiers, I mean. I watched the battle and I saw when it went wrong." He cast Argis' a worried glance, but Argis just nodded for him to continue. "When it was just you two, I thought you might make it, there weren't that many Forsworn left, after all. But when... I...I had to help." At this point Hákan stuttered somewhat "I could not watch them kill you, so I grabbed those axes and ran out, thought I could surprise the Forsworn. It wasn't that hard, they were so focused on you, they never saw me coming."

"You are very brave, you know?" Hákan suddenly blurted out, flushing a deep red.

Argis felt somewhat embarrassed by the compliment. He coughed to cover it up, muttering a "Thanks," and quickly changing the topic. "You said you live here. Does that mean there are other people in Markarth?"

"Yeah, it's a big city, people live here."

"It's just, we thought the Forsworn had killed everybody," Argis explained hastily.

"Nu-uh. They killed lots of people, but they needed others to work for them."

Argis did not recall seeing anybody other than Hákan and Carsten since the battle. Had there been civilians on the streets? Inebriated as he had been when they walked up to the lieutenant's house, his recollection was rather hazy.

There was something else that was nagging on Argis' mind, however. Turning to his companion he asked "How old are you?"

"Four-and-ten or maybe it's five-and-ten now, I dunno," Hákan shrugged negligently.

Argis had not thought that Hákan was that young, mostly because he was as tall as Argis already. He certainly acted his age though, when he found out what was inside the chest. Then again, Argis himself was struck speechless, as he beheld the fine clothes and a polished set of armour. He had never seen their like before.

Midday arrived and with it Carsten to escort them. Hákan seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, strutting as he was through the streets. Argis could not help but laugh, but instead of feeling offended Hákan flashed him one of his grins and continued, solely for Argis' amusement while Carsten tried to incinerate the youth with his glares.

Of the four hundred recruits that had formed the first and second heavy infantry regiment fifteen had survived the battle. There would have been three more, except that Ulfric had them hanged for desertion. Argis was thankful the parade did not take place where the traitors still hung from the gibbet. He did have to fight the urge to throw up though when they entered the main square and several hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him. There was a loud trumpet blast and then the soldiers came to attention, saluting. Saluting him, Argis realized with a sudden pang. He made his way over to his honorary position and mentally thanked Carsten for all those hours of exercising that allowed him to keep his posture.

Shortly after Argis first caught sight of Ulfric Stormcloak who was such an impressing figure, Argis quickly forwent paying attention to the ceremony in favour of gawking. He did have a wake-up call when the object of his admiration came to a halt in front of him, addressing Argis directly.

"Argis, I have been told of how you alone held the gap against a multitude of Forsworn, until our main forces arrived. You have been a stronghold against your enemy; henceforth you shall be known as such, ‘Argis the Bulwark’. Let this title bring pride to any true Nord and be a warning to your foes. As a reward for your services, you will be granted the opportunity to receive special training with the honorary guard of Markarth. The expensed will be paid in full by the hold of the Reach. Is there something you would like to say, Argis?

Argis' stomach churned and his throat felt dry, but he still managed to utter the following words: "Sir, I wasn't alone."

There was a chorus of gasps and mutters, but Ulfric looked pleased. "So I have heard. A brave warrior came to your aid when the need was great. What is your name, soldier?" the Jarl of Windhrlm asked, turning to Hákan, whose smile turned sour before entirely leaving his face.

Hákan looked stunned, before he silently muttered "I'm no soldier. 'M just a serf. Name's Hákan."

The surprise was clearly visible on Ulfric's face and Argis stared at his friend in shock. Serfs were the servile peasants, man not free to own land or titles and property of their freeholder.

Ulfric quickly regained his composure and announced in a booming voice "As of today, Hákan, I name you a free man of Skyrim. You too shall be granted free training and every army should be glad to have such a fine warrior amidst its ranks."

A thunderous applause followed the proclamation. In which Argis could hear Hákan repeat "I'm a free man. I'm a free man. Argis, did you hear?" while practically bouncing up and down. He was so excited, Carsten had to step on his toes to shut him up.

The rest of the ceremony passed rather quickly.

 

xxxx

 

Once they were back at the house, Argis wasted no time in changing into clothes that he was comfortable in. Carsten had dismissed him for the day and he had a task to do, something that had been on his mind ever since he woke up yesterday evening. The next couple of hours Argis attempted to gain some information on his brothers. After two days the army was finally getting their lists together and he succeeded, though afterwards he almost wished that he didn't.

Argis had been sitting at his brother's bedside for the past two days, but Olav refused to acknowledge him.

Olav's leg was in a splint, shattered from when his horse fell on him. He had continued to fight despite his injury, but his luck had run out that day and he had lost half of his swordhand when the crossguard of his sword gave way, whilst he had blocked an enemy blow. It was a common occurrence with inferior weapons.

When Argis had found his brother in an infirmary outside of Markarth their reconciliation had been strained, the joy marred by the news Argis had to break to Olav.

"Olav," Argis did not know how to say it. He had been devastated when he heard it. "Eric's dead."

"No." Olav was shaking his head in denial. "No, he can't be. You're lying."

"I would not..."

"LIAR!!" Olav began to scream and thrash on his sickbed so violently it took several orderlies to hold him down. The others shot Argis filthy glances, and he left, the sound of Olav's sobbing haunting h him. When Argis came back the other day, he was met with silence, though he refused to leave his brothers bedside.

In the evening Carsten got a hold of Argis and peppered him with questions concerning his future training in Markarth and whether he was going to accept. Finally he got frustrated by Argis' vague answers. "I hope you understand that this is a unique opportunity."

"I do," Argis assured him. There were however other things that occupied his mind at present. "With permission, sir, I would like to visit my family. And I have to get my brother home. He has been wounded and cannot walk."

"How do you plan on getting him home, then?" Carsten, ever the practical man, asked.

"I don't know, sir," Argis answered honestly.

Carsten studied Argis thoroughly, before giving a curt nod, as if he had just felled a decision. "I can get you a horse-drawn caravan. You know how to take care of a horse, lad?"

"I do, sir." They have had horses in the Cove, though Gundar had never owned one. Like any boy Argis had been fascinated with the big animals.

"It'll take some time to rebuild the city and to clean up. Tell you what, you go now and you're still a soldier and have to be formally discharged. You have until the month's out to return the horse and make the decision, how's that sound?"

His lieutenant's kindness surprised Argis. Why did the man care? Whatever the reason, Argis could not afford to turn down help. He said his farewells to Hákan, who looked absolutely crestfallen upon hearing that Argis was leaving the city.

"You will come back, right?" he asked, not for the first time.

"I will," Argis promised him. He was going to miss his friend, whose endless chatter and cheerful demeanour had been a source of comfort to Argis. "I have to return the horse and cart anyway."

When the physician declared Olav stable enough to travel, Argis readied the horse and cart. Under any other circumstanced Argis would have been excited to have his own horse, even if it was just for a month, but now he could barely muster any enthusiasm. It did not help that Olav's attitude towards him was worse than ever. He felt the hatred in his brother's gaze when he watched Olav try to awkwardly hobble with the help of a pair of heavy crutches.

"I don't need you," Olav hissed when Argis moved to help him. "I'll manage on my own!"

"Manage away, then," Argis replied, feeling anger rising. He turned around and walked back to the cart, climbing in the driver's seat. Let the pig-headed fool have his way. If he fell on his nose it wasn't Argis' fault, or his concern.

Their journey home passed in near hostile silence. What Argis had done to deserve such treatment he did not know. There was one moment when he believed that maybe the rift between him and his brother could be mended. After two days Olav finally broke the quiet.

"Eric was a good man. How could he die?" Olav's voice was streaked with grief and Argis thought that maybe that was what made his brother lash out at him.

But then Olav continued. "How could he die and you live? I wish it was the other way round. It should have been."

His words cut deep and they still rang in Argis' ears, when they reached the outskirts of the Cove in the evening.

_It should have been you._

He heard them when the first farmers caught sight of them, waving and cheering, crowding their cart and begging for information in their sons and daughters.

_It should have been you._

They carried on the breeze when Gundar and Ivanna stormed out of the house, their joyful expressions crumbling away as they looked down the road, praying for a second cart to appear.

_It should have been you._

When they held a ceremony for the departed, Argis could not look his family in the eyes, afraid they would blame him, too.

Nothing had changed around the farm, yet everything was different. With every passing day Argis became more conscious of the fact, that somehow, he no longer belonged here, in this place that had been his home for sixteen years. Maybe it was cowardice that drove him; the unwillingness to face Olav's injuries, his father's and mother's quiet sorrow that made him leave. Maybe he did not want to be in a place where he was constantly reminded that their family had been torn apart, conscious of the gaping hole where Eric should have been. In the end it did not matter. He yoked the mare Carsten lent him to the caravan and set out once again, back towards Markarth. Argis did not look back and when he passed the last buildings and fields that were the border of the Cove, he at long last breathed a sigh of relief.


	7. Chapter 7

At the age of eight-and-ten Argis was the youngest warrior in Markarth's history to receive training as a housecarl, or húskarl, as was the proper Nord term. There is a significant difference between a good fighter and a housecarl, who fights not only for himself, but for a Thane or another person of importance, whom he is sworn to serve and protect. That is why usually only experienced warriors are chosen to have the honour, but Ulfric must have pulled a few strings with the Jarl and Argis was allowed to participate.

In theory, anybody could become a housecarl. If two persons agreed that one would safeguard the other, that person became a housecarl in name.

True húskarla however underwent an education that consisted of far more than just weapons training. Argis also learned how to ride a horse, he studied the letters, how to read and write them and he attended lessons in history, geography and strategy. The main focus of his training however, was how to guard and defend a person and the acceptance of the fact that one day he might have to lay down his own life in order to save another.

Argis had joined Ulfric's army to protect his family, but his brothers had followed him and he had lost them both, though in different ways. If he could not even keep his family from harm, what good would he be as a housecarl? These doubts nagged on Argis' mind when he lay awake at night, tired, yet too agitated to fall asleep. In the darkness of the barracks he swore that this time he would make it right.

Not long after Argis had signed up for special training, Hákan had left with Carsten for Windhelm, where he was to receive his own training. Farewell was harder than it should have been, considering they had known each other a scant few months. It was a consolation that when Argis learned to write he could send letters now and then. Letters, which were answered, usually by a professional scribe, though Hákan signed them, his name probably being the only thing he could write.

In a city that was still mostly foreign to him and with his friend gone Argis threw himself into training with a single-mindedness that led to him being one of the most renowned warriors of Markarth within two year's time.

Fate dealt him a heavy blow when during a foray against the Forsworn, who had grown bold enough to attack some outlying farms, Argis was injured by a barbed javelin. The wound was grievous, but his comrades got him back to Markarth and its healers in time, otherwise he might not have made it. Argis survived and in time he healed, but due to being bedridden for a long time he was rendered unable to continue his training as a housecarl and dropped out, weakened in body and in spirit.

He did not give up, however, telling himself that it was just a setback, a minor inconvenience. Thus Argis hung on, grit his teeth and swore to regain his former shape. A feat that most deemed unlikely and in the end Argis was proud to prove them wrong, though it took him another two years to recover fully.

He learned an essential lesson during those years: the importance of the stubborn will to carry on. Jarl Igmund was so impressed by his warrior’s dedication that he decided to allow him to begin housecarl training anew.

The training was rigorous, lasting six years and less than one fourth of the trainees saw it through to the end. Most dropped out of their own volition when they could no longer stand the strain, though this time they had a special reason to continue. The Jarl's own housecarl was getting too old to see to his duties and although normally the position was for a lifetime, it was possible to release the housecarl honourably from his services, especially if he had served faithfully for as long as Karsten had. Karsten had been Jarl Hrolfdir's housecarl, but was assigned to the Jarl's son, Igmund, when the boy had come of age. He had saved the future Jarl's life by getting him out of Markarth, even though the Forsworn were almost at the city's doorstep. Old age spared none though and within a few years Jarl Igmund and Karsten would have to choose Karsten's successor. The chances were high it would be somebody from the group of thirty trainees of which Argis was a part of.

Húskarl to the Jarl was the highest position a simple soldier could reach, unless he would be to do something truly remarkable and be rewarded the title of Thane.

Halfway through Argis' training an old friend of his put in an appearance.

After seven years Argis barely recognized the man that strode into the practice grounds one afternoon. Time had changed Hákan. He had been lanky, too thin to be healthy, but hard work and proper food had filled him out. Now he stood half a head over Argis, which made him tower head and shoulders over most everybody else and he had the breadth of shoulders to match his height. His light blonde hair had a multitude of carefully woven braids and he had grown a short, neat beard, not unlike Argis himself.

Some things remained unchanged, though. There was the same broad smile on his face and the same joy shone in his eyes, coupled with a mischievous glint. Hákan's hug nearly lifted Argis off his feet and it might have cracked a few ribs in the process, but Argis laughed it off, pounding on his friend's back, delighted that they would meet again.

Later, Argis took Hákan drinking and they talked through the night, getting reacquainted and the words flowed easily between them, despite the fact that they were practically strangers. It turned out Hákan had decided to return to Markarth for good, leaving the services of the army of Eastmarch, something he could only afford to do because a certain grumpy lieutenant had adopted him. He had missed the city of his birth and wanted to join the soldiers. Argis invited Hákan to stay with him, for he owned a small home close to the soldier's quarters. The reimbursement for his services in the battle for Markarth had been very generous and he had hardly any expenses at all with his training being funded. So Hákan moved in and Argis' home became a bit cramped, though a lot more comfortable. He never moved out again.

They did not become intimate, not for some time, until a drunken night that led to them jouncing a bed in the back of one of the barracks. Next day Argis' memories of what had occurred had been hazy, but he remembered that while some soldiers shoot him nasty glares, others grinned and gave him the thumbs up. Hákan was not Argis' first lover, but he was the first one the Nord was _in love_ with and the two of them had been together ever since.

Hákan liked to drink, to fight and to fuck and in Argis he had found someone with whom he could engage in all three activities.

 

xxxx

 

Of the thirty trainees five completed their education. Argis did not only pass the final tests, he exceeded at them. Over the years he had become somewhat of a celebrity and the name ‘Argis the Bulwark’ was famous throughout the hold of the Reach. When the festivities for the election of the Jarl's new húskarl began, the entire city of Markarth was in an uproar. People did not only enjoy the celebrations, they also cheered on their favourite competitors and took bets on who would be the Jarl's choice.

Only the Proving remained, a custom that served tradition far more than any purpose. The housecarls would take a few chosen soldiers and lead them against the Jarl's enemies. Their targets had already been picked out. Two bandit camps, a band of robbers, the lair of a bear that had caused some trouble by killing livestock and a small group of Forsworn. The Jarl's scouts had located and observed them and the procedure was mainly to entertain the masses. The victors would return to Markarth, parade through the streets, offer Jarl Igmund his services and he would finally be able to name one of them his húskarl. Both Igmund and Karsten had no doubt who would have the honour.

All trainees were capable, but only one was outstanding.

The person in question was altogether glad to be able to escape the fuss and spend a beautiful summer day outside Markarth's walls, enjoying the peace and quiet of the parks surrounding the city. It was hard to believe that once a battle had raged in this valley. After the Forsworn Uprising Markarth had prospered, and the Jarl had ordered the green area built as a sign of the city's wealth, because there was no space inside the city of stone for that sort of thing. Mostly the park consisted of a hedge, lots of grass, some trees and a few flowerbeds. And what must have been the least comfortable stone benches in all of Tamriel.

None of that mattered to Hákan, who was lying stretched out on his back, while Argis used his lover as a backrest, whilst eating his lunch that he had brought with him. From time to time Hákan nicked some food from Argis. He was risking a fist to the face, the Divines knew Argis guarded his meals more closely than a starving wolf, but what fun was the game without a little risk?

Argis finished eating, brushed off the crumbs and tackled Hákan, starting a wrestling match that had them laughing and swearing at each other. It was all in good fun and Hákan let it go on for a while before he put his greater weight and strength to use, pinning his lover to the ground. Argis huffed in mock annoyance, but there was no force behind it. He had started their tussle after all and he knew well that when it came to unarmed combat, be it brawling or wrestling, he did not stand a chance against Hákan. No one did.

Hákan grinned down at his captive, before leaning down and kissing Argis languidly, who responded with a happy hum when the full, warm weight of his lover settled over him. He let their kiss deepen, his hands trailing down Hákan's chest, its plains hard and defined even through the soft fabric of the shirt, to Hákan's hips and beyond, kneading the muscles suggestively and eliciting a groan from the man above him. Then, without a warning Argis dug his fingers in the bigger man's sides.

Hákan was off him in the blink of an eye, casting Argis a wounded look. "That's not very nice." He wagged his finger at Argis' face, adding "Tickling's not fair."

Argis could see the physical effect their closeness had on his lover, but if he allowed it to continue, they'd end up rutting in the park like two animals in heat. Not exactly appropriate behaviour for a man in the position he was aiming at. So he tried to slow his breathing and not show how very affected he was himself, taking his time to stretch out in the grass and to grin up at Hákan, though his smile did not stay long before it faded slowly, leaving behind a frown as Argis continued staring up into the endless blue of the sky.

Hákan had been dealing with Argis' mood for the past days, trying to cheer him up by distracting him from his doubts. With sex, usually. Which was more or less out of the question here in the open, not that they would have let propriety stop them a year ago. But húskarl to the Jarl was going to change his lover, it already had, and Hákan was not sure if it was for the better. Oh, Argis was as respected as ever, but strangely his fame and the promise of a new position brought him little joy and a lot of unease.

He let himself plop down beside Argis, resting one hand on the other man's belly and shaking him slightly. "Oi, quit yar worrying already."

Argis' only reply was a rueful twitch of his lips. He had tried hard to keep up a cheerful facade, but Hákan knew him too well and had caught him brooding. He had been doing it a lot lately. This entire business with the selection and the festivities was wearing him out. Maybe he would be able to catch a break once all of it was over.

"A few more days and the Jarl's gonna choose, you, 'cause, who else is there? That dour toad Faleen?" Hákan snorted, the notion was just ridiculous. Poking Argis gently in the side he continued "I'll get you out and we'll get so drunk, we won't be able to walk straight for a week. How's that sound?"

Laughing out loud Argis shook his head. "It sounds great." He did not mention that once he was in the Jarl's service, he probably would no longer be able to go carousing at a whim. He was pulled out of thoughts when Hákan took his hands and tugged him into a sitting position.

"Here, I got something for you." Hákan reached into his pack for a wrapped bundle that Argis had noticed, but had not asked about. "For luck."

Argis unwrapped the cloth to reveal a beautiful dagger. The hilt was made from rosewood and it had grooves filled with braided wire for a secure grip. Argis did not test the edge. He knew it would be razor sharp.

Hákan watched Argis admire the blade and try out its grip with a gentle smile. It was not the gift he wanted to give his lover, but so far he had found neither the courage nor the proper time to follow his heart's desire. For four years Argis and him had been a couple, which was an unusually long time to be together without any commitment and Hákan firmly believed they belonged together, after all, fate had let them towards each other all those years ago on the battlefield. The amulet was a familiar weight in his pocket. He carried it with him at all times, though he had never put it on. He had not been contemplating married life for long, but lately he felt that maybe he was ready to settle down with the one person he loved. All he had to do was take the amulet and propose. So far, the only thing standing in his way was Argis himself. Or rather, his ambition. Hákan knew Argis would not find any peace, not until he succeed in what he was striving for. He admired his lover's strength of purpose, but Hákan nevertheless looked forward to a time when there would not be just another accomplishment standing between the two of them.

"It's beautiful." Argis beamed at him and leaned in to brush his lips tenderly against Hákan's. "But you did not have to get me anything. After all, I'm going to have you with me, what more could I want?"

Hákan did not hesitate. "I can think of something," he said huskily.

They left shortly after, heading back home and making the most of the afternoon and the night.

 

xxxx

 

Argis set out with a group of ten soldiers plus Hákan and Thurek, who was no soldier and in Argis' opinion far too young to accompany them, but would trail after Hákan anyway, who was like a father to the boy. Hákan had a habit of picking up strays, be they human or animal, like the alley cat he had brought home once.

Their destination was the group of Forsworn, who had settled down in some ruins too close to Markarth. It would take them three days to get there and so they took two horses to carry supplies for the men. They had received reports from the Jar's scouts and knew exactly about their target's position and strength. The night before the planned attack their camp was dark and silent, so as not to alert their enemy to their presence. They would attack at dawn, when hopefully the Forsworn would be still asleep. If not, the soldiers still had the advantage of the sun rising behind them, blinding their foes.

In the morning Hákan helped Argis secure the last buckles on the back, before turning his lover around, pulling him close and resting their brows together. It was almost a rite, a few seconds that belonged only to themselves; to forget about the others and the oncoming fight. They stepped back as one and Argis mustered Hákan, who was habitually clad only in his pants and blue warpaint, as he claimed he did not like getting his clothes bloody. Armed with two axes and he looked just like the barbarian he was, right down to his braided hair, which was immaculate. He must have gotten, up extra early to get it right, a fact that amused Argis no end.

Stepping out of their tent, Argis assumed his role as commander, the burden of responsibility a familiar weight on his shoulders. He split the men in half and Hákan's and his own group would attack from different sides, working their way towards each other. Thurek, too young and inexperienced to join the fight would remain behind and guard their camp. Not that it needed protection; that was just Hákan's way of keeping the boy out of trouble.

"Alright, let's get this over with," Argis muttered to Rolfrik, his second in command, and waved at the remaining four men to follow him.

Hákan's group moved off in the other direction, the big Nord looking over his shoulder, laughing as tossed back at Argis "I'll leave some Forsworn for you to fight! If you hurry up!"

They crept up to the camp unnoticed, after Rolfrik had taken out a lonely sentry with one precise shot.

The fight was going as planned. They had managed to surprise the Forsworn and were currently driving the last of them towards the middle of the camp, where a crumbling watchtower stood. Argis saw Hákan leading his soldiers not far away, engaged in a similar way. That was when a thunderous explosion shook the camp, taking out two or three of Hákan's men. An explosion like this could only come from magic.

There had been no mention of a briarheart in the scout's reports. The appearance of the spellcaster presented a problem; they had nobody to counter the magic attacks. "Where did they get a briarheart from?" Argis heard one of the soldiers cry out.

The answer to the question lurked in the tower, but Argis never saw the hagraven step out of the decrepit building. Hákan did. He charged the monstrous witch, burying one of his axes in her neck, but not in time. Whatever foul spell she had cast, it sent Argis flying through the air. He smashed into some rocks and slid to the ground, where he lay unmoving in a broken heap, like a puppet whose stings had been cut.

"Argis!" Hákan yelled, but he could not look after his lover just yet, because there were still Forsworn inside the tower. With a bellow of rage, Hákan stormed into their midst.

 

Seeing the hagraven fall, the briarheart watched the great warrior storm the tower, his axes wreaking havoc amongst his enemies. The Nord was a fearsome opponent, one who had claimed many lives already. The briarheart gauged his options and with a shrug he began casting.

 

Argis was consumed by pain. From where he was lying on the ground, the left side of his face pressed into the dirt, he could barely make out Hákan, the warrior's blonde hair glowing golden in the rising sum like a halo. He put down the hagraven and entered the watchtower, disappearing from Argis' fading sight.

Moments later a huge ball of fire hit the tower, exploding within and toppling the already crumbling structure.

Argis' heart stopped. No, this could not be happening. Please, Talos, let it be just a hallucination of his. "NO!" he heard himself shouting, his frantic pulse a hum in his ears. "Nooo!! HÁKAN!!!"

He tried to get up, but the effort sent a spike of such agony through his body, his vision blacked out completely. He continued to scream even though it hurt, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish of his soul. His chest felt like somebody had plunged a red-hot knife through it and was slowly twisting it around, ripping out his heart in the process. Argis kept calling after his lover, until his breath stuttered and finally, with one last tormented cry it faltered.

 

xxxx

 

Rolfrik drew his last arrow and with a deep breath he nocked it, risking a glance at the briarheart from his hiding place. He sent a short prayer to Talos, drew his bow and stepped out from cover. His aim was true and the arrow punched straight through the chest of the briarheart, extinguishing the glow that emanated from the spellcaster and putting a stop to the man's deadly volley of magic.

With the briarheart dead the fighting was over. He had sacrificed the last of is kinsman in order to deal a crucial blow to the attackers. Of their own men, Rolfrik saw that two were still standing and both looked hurt, though not fatally. He had seen Argis hit by a blinding white flash and watched in horror as the fireball caused the tower to collapse on itself seconds later, burying everybody inside.

He could mourn the dead later, for now his concern was for the living. With a sinking heart Rolfrik made his way over to where he had seen his commander fall.

 

xxxx

 

There were voices, but Argis' ears were ringing and when he opened his eyes his vision swam in and out of focus. It seemed some people were arguing nearby.

"...if his back's broke… ," Argis heard one of the soldiers say and a cold dread gripped him. Oh gods, please no. He could face death, but being crippled for the rest of his life, never to walk again was just too much.

"It's not just his back I'm worried about, it's his head," another voice cut in. Rolfrik, Argis' mind supplied. "We need to turn him around, but carefully. On three!"

Argis must have fainted when they moved him, because when next he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back and there were four faces looking down on him. Just four. Rolfrik, Lars, Fjol and Thurek. Where were the others? Where was Hákan?

He tried to move, to look around, but Rolfrik restrained him. "Don't move," the veteran commanded him, not unkindly. He uncorked a red bottle, a healing potion Argis realized, and knelt next to Argis, telling him calmly to drink.

Argis did not understand. His lover would never leave him alone when he was hurt. He was still gazing around, trying to catch a glimpse of the familiar smile, of a strand of light blonde hair. "Hákan," he ground out. "Where's Hákan?"

Confused as he was, Argis did not miss Rolfrik twitch. Instead of answering the veteran propped the bottle against Argis' lips, repeating his former request. "Drink."

Argis lifted his hand to ward off the man when his eyes lit on a pile of rubble not far from where he was lying. Fjol moved to block his line of sight, but it had been enough to bring the memories back.

The hagraven. Hákan fighting Forsworn in the tower. A fiery flash of light and stones falling. Grief washed over Argis and he felt tears well in his eyes and sobs wracked his damaged body.

Once again he had failed, not able to protect the one thing, the one _person_ who meant more to him than life itself. He did not want to go on. A life without Hákan's smiles and his laughter was dark and dreary and not something Argis wanted to endure. Death would be preferable.

With a desperate strength Argis gripped Rolfrik's wrist. "Please," he wheezed out. "Please let me go. Let me go to Sovngarde." He was imploring the man with tear filled eyes, hoping his friend would understand.

 

xxxx

 

Rolfrik looked at the man who was his friend and commander. They would all mourn Hákan's loss, the big, cheerful warrior had been well-liked by all. Argis though looked devastated. Their relationship had been no secret and for one moment Rolfrik considered to give in to Argis' request, thinking that it might be kinder to let him slip away to the afterlife and the Hall of Valor, where he would be united with his beloved one.

"I'm sorry, my friend," the veteran said softly, before turning to the remaining soldiers. "Hold him down."

Argis tried to fight them off, but he had little strength left and when Rolfrik held his nose closed, it was a choice between drinking the potion and passing out from lack of air. He almost did, but instinct overrode his will and he was forced to gulp down the entire contents of the bottle. The pressure of hands lifted off his body and Argis was left coughing and feeling betrayed. He was aware of the potion healing his body, but no amount of magic would be able to erase his sorrow.

Rolfrik watched the healing process avidly. Apart from the left side of his face, where the magic had struck, Argis had little visible wounds, but he must have sustained heavy internal damage after crashing into the rocks as he had done. The most grievous injury was to his head, a long cut that bled profusely and, if Rolfrik had guessed correctly, a fractured skull. Evidence of severe head trauma was visible, as Argis' left eye had slowly filled with blood, his pupils dilated and uneven in size.

There was a light glow around Argis as the magic mended wounds that would normally take weeks to heal on their own, within minutes. The blood drained from Argis' left eye, but it was left forever milky and unseeing; some damage could not even be repaired by magic.

 

xxxx

 

Despite the healing process leaving him drained, Argis staggered upright. His walk was unsteady, but he was determined to reach the remains of the tower, a mould made from what must have been several tons of stone.

"Hákan!" Argis roared. There was no answer.

Argis attempted to shove a boulder away, but it would not budge. He tried another one, continued digging until his hands were cut open and his nails cracked and bloody, calling out for his lover from time to time, fervently listening for an answer.

It was in vain. Giving up hope at last, Argis let himself collapse next to the heap of ruins. It was an apt description for what his life had become during the course of one day. He remained on the ground, sobbing, until Rolfrik came to pick him up. "We must get away. The sun will set early with the mountains all around us and then predators will come."

Argis let himself be dragged off; he had no strength left to resist. His initial anger at Rolfrik had turned to a feeling of helplessness and finally, apathy. Rolfrik had taken over the command for the moment, leading the few survivors back, towards Markarth. They did not go far though, late as the day already was.

When they set up camp for the night, at least the soldiers turned away to give Argis some semblance of privacy as he wept. He was not the only one. They all could hear Thurek's sniffles throughout the night.

 

The Divines must have abandoned them and their cause entirely, because the next day Argis saw a bulky shadow trailing after them. Why it targeted them when they had left behind a field of corpses just a few miles away they did not know. It was either young and inexperienced or starving and desperate. A group of five was tough prey, but they were vulnerable due to exhaustion. The healing potions took their toll on the body, sustained as they were by the energy of the one who drank the magical concoction.

In any case they built up the fire in the night and kept a close watch. The sabrecat struck in the wee hours of the morning.

Like an arrow the beast shot out of the underground, leaping at the unlucky Fjol, its powerful hind legs and sharp claws disembowelling its victim. The man's agonized shrieks woke Argis up. Dazed, he clumsily reached for his sword and shield.

Of their group, Thurek was the fastest to react. He picked up the oil carafe and tossed into the flames. With a low _thump_ the fire flared up, bigger than men-height and a wave of heat passed over them.

The sabrecat let out a frightened yowl and let off Fjol, but instead of fleeing it went in a frenzy, ears flattened against its skull, it was spitting and hissing at the soldiers. The cat must have been ravenous to brave such opposition.

Argis had no warning as the great predator suddenly lunged at him. He smashed his shield into the cat's face, breaking one of its front teeth, but momentum carried it onwards, knocking Argis flat on his back. Argis felt pain flash across his left cheek, before the sabrecat's front claws found purchase in Argis' chest, cutting deep and if he did not react quickly, his fate would be the same as Fjol's. The impact stunned the warrior and he dropped his sword, but while he fell his hand had grazed something he had forgotten.

For one moment Argis believed he could feel the warmth of sunshine upon his face and he clearly heard Hákan's deep voice. _"For luck"._

Snarling himself, Argis pulled the dagger and stabbed into the sabrecat's throat and, when the beast jerked violently, again, into its eye-socket. The cat had one final spasm, before it fell over and its claws were ripped out of Argis' chest, leaving behind deep gouges. Argis coughed and felt the salty taste of blood fill his mouth.

As suddenly as the fight had begun, it was over again.   Somebody was screaming, a high piercing sound, that was cut off abruptly and when Argis turned his head he saw Rolfrik pulling his blade from Fjol's chest, putting a swift end to the man's suffering.

 

xxxx

 

Rolfrik cursed vehemently. Had not enough misfortune befallen them already? Argis was down, again. It seemed there was no end to the man's ill luck.

"Do we have another healing potion?". Lars asked the veteran.

Rolfrik shook his head. "No. We only had three." Lars and Fjol had drunk the other two.

Judging by the rasp in Argis' breath, the man's lung might have sustained injury. He would not be going anywhere.

"Tie the horses together and put two poles between, shoulders and rear. We'll take our blankets and make a stretcher," Rolfrik ordered. "I will sort through our things; we will leave behind everything that can be spared. We set out immediately." There was a short bustle of activity and then, after treating Argis' wounds, Lars and Rolfrik heaved the injured Nord upon their makeshift stretcher between the two horses. The animals looked pretty unhappy with their new burden.

Rolfrik kept their little group walking through the day, not allowing them any rest until evening. By them Argis was alternately shivering and sweating. When Rolfrik checked on him, his skin was hot to the touch and it felt clammy.

"This ain't right."

Rolfrik knew that the sabrecat's claws had been filthy, but for an infection to set in so quickly? True, Argis' body was weakened, but his state was beyond normal.

The veteran boiled some water to wash the wounds once again. When he unwrapped the bandages, one gash in particular looked inflamed. It was an angry red and light pressure caused the wound to weep pus and a milky coloured liquid. Rolfrik leaned closer, and in the last rays of the setting he saw something whitish distorting the wound.

"Holy Talos!" Rolfrik's eyes grew wide. With the help of his pocketknife he pulled a three inch long claw from Argis' chest. It was a small mercy that Argis was no longer conscious by then. Time was running out. Staring at the find, the soldier pocketed the claw, turning to Lars and Thurek, who sat on the ground slumped with exhaustion. "We go on."

 

xxxx

 

At noon of the second day the city of Markarth came into view. Instead of a parade, their entry resembled a funeral procession. In a way, it was.

A traumatized, half-blind warrior whose recuperation was not a thing of certainty was not fit to be the Jarl's bodyguard. Igmund chose Faleen as his housecarl, but plagued by his conscience the Jarl took pity on Argis and appointed him húskarl – to Vlindrel Hall.

A meaningless title, as empty as the gaping hole in Argis' chest, where his heart had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was very difficult and pretty painful to write


	8. Chapter 8

'Housecarl to Vlindrel Hall, as if a house needed protection,' Argis thought bitterly as he stared up at the stone ceiling of the healer's houses located in a side wing of the Temple of Dibella. The Jarl had visited him personally, probably to alleviate his conscience. After all, it had been the Jarl's scouts and their faulty reports that were responsible for the clusterfuck his mission had become. If Argis ever found out the men's names, he would tear those bloody bastards limb from limb.

Others had come by to offer their sympathies and condolences. Argis wished they would shut the fuck up and leave him be. The last thing he wanted was to be repeatedly reminded of what he had lost.

He had awoken two days ago and though he had been drugged against the pain Argis had nonetheless noticed that something was wrong. At first he could not pinpoint it. Blinking his eyes, it slowly dawned on him that he could not see out of his left eye. Argis tried to fight the rising panic, closing his eyes again. When he had heard the soft whisper of a priest's moccasins on the Temple's stone tiles, he spoke up for the first time.

"There's something wrong with my eye," he rasped out, hoping against hope that the healers had overlooked his injury or maybe postponed its treatment for reasons unknown.

The priestess however did not respond at first, twiddling her skirts instead, but the lack of a reply was an answer in itself. Argis' breath stuttered and he clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. Damn it, he would not lose his composure like a milk-drinking recruit.

"I'm sorry… ," the woman began.

"Leave me," Argis interrupted her brusquely.

She lingered for a moment longer, before finally turning to leave, her soft footsteps dwindling as she retreated. Argis tossed an arm across his face and breathed hard through the threatening tears. He was a warrior who lived with the risk of being injured every day. He would _not_ grieve the loss of an eye, for compared to what he had lost, his maiming was insignificant. Hell, he would throw his right arm into the count to get Hákan back.

As it was, Argis would get neither his lover back, nor his eyesight. The healers had worked hard to purge the infection from his body and to restore his health. Argis did not know it, but he had come close to dying and the healer's entire focus had been on keeping him alive.

Four days after he woke up and a week since he was brought to the Temple, Argis was proclaimed strong enough to leave the infirmary. He stepped out of the cool, dusky interior of the Temple, shielding his face against the blinding sunlight. It was a beautiful day; the sun was shining brightly from a cloudless sky and the warm air was stirred by a light breeze. Strange, how life went on, that the world continued, oblivious to the passing of those living upon her. Somehow, Argis had expected things to have changed, for the skies to be darkened with heavy clouds and thunder, to match his own sorrow. As he stood on the threshold it slowly downed on him that he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

So he slowly made his way back to his home, taking narrow alleyways that were seldom traversed and avoiding the busier areas and streets of the city. Markarth's stairs took a toll on Argis' weakened body and he had to pause frequently in order to catch his breath and to wait for the stabbing pain in his chest to diminish to a dull ache.

The first time Argis had been grievously wounded by a javelin the priests had merely patched him up and ensured his survival. He had been nobody back then. Now, at the Jarl's behest they had spared no efforts to make certain that he would carry no lingering damage, except for what was irreversible.

Argis should be grateful. He wasn't, wishing they had left him to die.

At last he halted in front of the solid, oaken doors of his hone, but he could not quite bring himself to go inside. Argis sunk down on the stone bench that stood in front of the house, supporting his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling uselessly between his thighs and his gaze unfocused and vacant.

A muffled thump next to him made Argis look up. A grey tabby stood before him, looking up expectantly. It was Prowl, Hákan's cat, which meowed at Argis until he bent down and picked her up, placing the cat in his lap, from where she immediately jumped up to bump her head against his jaw. Argis sat there, stroking the cat's soft fur mechanically and listening to her happy purrs, until when next he looked up the sun had wandered a good deal across the sky. With a sigh he sat Prowl down; she lived in the streets, but she had a box and a food bowl they kept full.

Argis winced. There was no 'them', not anymore.

With something akin to dread he unlocked the front door, opening it wide to allow some light into the house's dim interior. Markarth's houses were usually made entirely of stone and few had even shuttered windows. As a consequence it was dark inside, but on the upside the interior was pleasantly cool in summer and warm in winter when the thick walls kept the warmth in. If people did not want to sit in the darkness or waste candles they simply left the doors ajar, as Argis did now.

He entered the tiny kitchen with its cold hearth, walked through what passed for a living room until he came to a stop in front of the alcove with its double bed. The sheets would still smell of Hákan and of sex and Argis wanted nothing more than to fall into the bed, although if he allowed himself to, he might not find the strength to get up once more. Instead he turned away, towards the nightstand where a small rectangular piece of polished metal served as a looking glass. Argis picked it up and with a thudding heart he looked at his reflection. Much to his surprise his left eye was not gone, but milky in colour though very much still there. He had not dared to touch his face and find out before.

His left cheek bore two long, straight cuts which were scabbed over, the skin tight around them. One started directly below his now useless eye and a third, much smaller one cut across his lips, close to the corner of his mouth. It wasn't that bad. Argis had been holding his breath which he now let out shakily, putting the looking glass back and looking around.

Every corner of his home, every nook and piece of furniture awoke memories. On a worktable in front of the fireplace a pair of unfinished vambraces lay. Argis had been making these for Hákan, who somehow always managed to wreck his. He picked them up, running his fingers over the supple leather. They had spent many an evening here, mending their armour and talking, or just working together in companionable silence. Argis tossed his piece of work back down on the table. When they landed with a clatter, he thought he could hear and feel his heart break.

Here, where Hákan's presence was practically tangible, Argis knew he would find no peace. Before the day was out he had sold his home and moved what little furniture and personal effects he had decided to keep to Vlindrel Hall. He invested all his savings and bought a part of Vlindrel Hall from Raerek who handed Argis over the keys.

Vlindrell Hall was huge - Argis' previous house would have fit into the kitchen alone - and empty. Argis' footsteps echoed loudly through the empty manor and the darkness that lingered in the corners and was too thick for the stuttering flame of his candle to chase away seemed foreboding. The emptiness made Argis weary and he was glad to lie down on his new bed and to slip under some furs. He had claimed a room on the right hand side as his own. The sputtering candle flame kept Argis company, until close to midnight it guttered out.

Tired as he was, Argis had no difficulties falling asleep. It was the dreams that tormented him which made him choose wakefulness over sleep on the nights that followed. Argis did not know which ones were worse, those in which he repeatedly watched Hákan being buried under a cascade of stone, unable to help, or those in which his lover was still alive, laughing heartfelt and assuring Argis that he was alright. From the first he awoke screaming, but the second seemed so real, they threatened to rob him of his sanity. Argis started to drink to escape his dreams and get a nights rest.

He continued out of habit and because passing out drunk was better than listening to the ugly thoughts in his head. Rolfrik had banned him from the training grounds until he had regained his strength, so there was nothing for Argis to do, nothing to keep him busy. Lars had visited frequently and Argis was torn between wanting to be alone and being glad there was somebody to distract him from the swamp of depression he was in danger of drowning in.

His friend told him that a troop of soldiers had been sent out to collect the bodies of their eight fallen comrades – or what remained of them. They had not found Hákan's body, even though the boulders had shifted, the tower collapsing further unto itself, allowing the men to search inside. The funeral rites had been held while Argis was unconscious in the Temple of Dibella. Every soldier Argis had taken with him had been a close friend. Now he visited their graves in the Hall of the Dead, though Argis felt too drained and too tired to mourn them properly, leaving only the customary offerings on the marble altar. The dead did not need worldly possessions. They were at peace.

One other thing was giving Argis trouble. Blind on one eye he was losing his depth perception. It was not something that happened at once, but a gradual process and all the more bothersome for it. When after two weeks Argis was allowed back into the training ring, it was only to find out that he, who had been Markarth's best fighter, could no longer could his own against even an average swordsman. His body knew all the moves and he had no difficulties to read his opponent's eyes; their attacks he could anticipate with ease. However, the real problem was that once he got into close combat, he no longer could gauge distances. Between twenty and two feet Argis could see little to no difference.

To add insult to injury his field of vision was reduced, making it easy to outmanoeuvre him by striking at his blind side. The fact that after just a few minutes of fighting Argis was badly winded did not help either.

 

xxxx

 

For the umpteenth time Argis picked up his training sword after his training partner had managed to knock it out of his hand. Argis had been sure this time he would be able to block the attack, but he had misjudged the distance once again and missed his opponent who took his chance to disarm him. The pain in his chest had started again, but Argis was stubbornly ignoring it.

"Again!" he barked at the man opposite him.

Lars watched the confrontation with apprehension. Argis had lost every bout so far. Two months and the housecarl showed no indication of getting better. One thing had to be said about Argis: he was stubborn. He never complained, just picked his sword up and had another go; the only outward sign of his frustration was that his face bore all the cheerfulness of a thunderstorm. He sounded perfectly calm however as he took his place in the ring once more. The two fighters circled each other carefully, Argis shaking his head like an angry bull from time to time, as if that would clear his vision and help him see better. Much like before, his training partner went for Argis' blind side. Something changed in Argis posture, a barely noticeable difference betrayed by the glint in his eye. _Shit._ Before he knew what exactly happened, Lars was up and sprinting towards the combatants.

Argis felt something snap inside him when he saw the blade striking at his vulnerable side once more. He was fed up with his injury, with his incapability to defend himself, to fight. The one thing he had actually excelled at and now it had been taken from him. He felt like a bumbling recruit again.

And he was angry. With the Forsworn who had killed his lover. With Hákan, who had gotten himself blown up. With himself and his weakness, his failures. And with all those spectators who looked at him with pity, whose fingers he saw pointing at him when they thought he was not looking and their whispers, snatches of which carried to him on the wind.

For once not taking the defensive stance, Argis went all out, allowing the battle madness to take over. He ran straight at his opponent, surprise and his greater weight doing the job, breaking through the other man's guard. He got a two handed grip on his sword and swung it, putting all his strength into the blow. That might have just been the last of the soldier, if Lars had not tackled Argis, slapping his arm away and fouling the strike. Argis' blade soared harmlessly past the stunned man.

"Damn it, Argis! Ya tryin' to kill him?" Lars cried, tightening his grip on Argis' armour and giving the man a good shake. Argis glowered down on him and for a moment Lars thought that his friend might turn on him, but then Argis seemed to deflate, dropping his sword and running a hand over his face.

"Shit!" the big Nord cursed and a kick sent his blade sailing through the air.

Lars could not begin to imagine the frustration Argis must be feeling, he had always just been a simple soldier. Nonetheless he tried to encourage the warrior.

"Remember the time when Rolf broke his arm? He couldn't draw his bow for a year. And now he's one of our best archers. You will get better again in time."

"How am I supposed to get better if I can't see?" Argis replied.

Lars had never heard his friend sound so defeated and he did not know the answer to Argis' question, so instead he asked one of his own. "Are you alright?

"Do I fucking look like I'm alright?" Argis spat back. He felt sorry for snapping at his friend as soon as the words left his mouth.

"You look like hell," Lars answered silently, his tone sincere. He was concerned for his friend. It had been two months and Argis' iron self control had not slipped once, not until today when Lars was quite sure he had been about to bash his training partner's brains in. That was Argis. Lars was pretty sure it was not healthy, bottling up your feelings like that. Hákan had known how to deal with it, one word from him, one small gesture and he could make anyone smile. He had been good with people like that, something that Lars was not.

"Are you getting any rest?"

The wry twitch of Argis' lips told Lars he had hit close to home.

Lars was at wit's end. He could not help the man with his grief or his injury, but Argis did not have to face it all on his own. When Lars put a hand on his friends' shoulder, the big warrior flinched away from his touch.

Sympathy would get Lars nowhere, he knew his friend well enough.

"Pick up yar sorry arse and move on." It was true and well meant, although somewhat coarse.

"That's what I've been trying to do."

They stood there in uncomfortable silence until Argis went back to gather his sword from where he had kicked it.

"Again."

 

xxxx

 

Jarl Igmund watched Markarth's prized warrior struggle hard not to waste away. Maybe what the man needed was a distraction, something to occupy him; a task. Igmund had Argis summoned before him.

The Nord warrior looked terrible, face haggard, eyes bloodshot with circles under his eyes so dark it looked like he had two black eyes. His armour was immaculate, however and his salute brisk.

"Ah, Argis I am glad to see you have recovered from your injuries. I was sorry to hear of your loss."

"Thank you, my Jarl," Argis spoke to his sovereign. He did not glance in Faleen's direction even once, treating the Jarl's housecarl as if she was air. She was a thorn in his side and he decided to deal with her as he did all pain: with stoic indifference. The man to Igmund's left Argis could not remember seeing before. Then again, he had paid little heed to the nobles and their court, caught up as he had been in his training.

Jarl Igmund decided not to comment on Arigs' cool tone. Instead he announced the reason why he had called for the man.

"I have decided it is time for you to do what you were trained to. I name you housecarl to Bjorn of Solitude, Thane of Markarth."

Bjorn was Nord by birth, though Imperial by choice; he wholeheartedly considered himself to be a citizen of the civilized and cosmopolitan Empire. Being the second son of a noble family from Solitude he had few obligations and too much time on his hands and therefore he grew bored, deciding to take up adventuring as a pastime. A dalliance with the wrong nobleman's daughter had him leaving the city of his birth, but luck, a political coup and an outrageous amount of money got him the position of Thane of Markarth.

He was of middle height, had green eyes, brown hair that he kept slicked back and a small patch of beard on his chin. 'Like a goat' Argis' mind supplied. Apparently the women liked it if Bjorn's reputation was to be believed. Why, Argis could not fathom, but then he had little experience with the fair sex. Worst of all, his new Thane smelled like a lavender field, which had Argis sneezing violently. All in all, Argis was not impressed with his new charge. Evidently the feeling was mutual.

Nonetheless there was a spring in the Thane's step as he approached Argis, bowing his head slightly in greeting. "Good day to you, sirrah. I was told you were to be my manservant?"

Argis' jaw nearly hit the ground. That man was either ignorant or insolent beyond measure. "I'm nobody's _servant_ ," the warrior ground out.

Bjorn's face fell somewhat, his smile becoming strained, realizing he had just made a big mistake.

"Err...It seems we got off on the wrong foot. Let me make amends and introduce myself. I am Bjorn, son of Erikur, from bright and beautiful Solitude, home to bards, poets and fair maidens." That said he turned his attention back to his housecarl, who suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"I'm Argis."

"Oh my, I see your eloquence knows no bounds," Bjorn joked lightly, trying to break the ice. Win Argis over with humour. "I have attended the Bards College, of course," he continued, completely oblivious that his attempts at small talk fell on deaf ears.

"I guess one has a lot of time if you don't have to work," Argis muttered darkly.

"Well, yes." Bjorn's face lit up. Maybe they would get along alright if they found some common ground. "And I wouldn't want to dirty my hands with common labour." Being a warrior was better than being a peasant, right? What had the Jarl said? Housecarl. The man must be proud to be swinging a sword instead of a shovel.

Argis did not reply this time.

 

It went from bad to worse. The Jarl sent Bjorn on many errands and as his housecarl, it was Argis' duty to accompany his Thane. The first time they set out Bjorn looked worriedly at the man at his side. The Nord looked to be dead on his feet. On the night before the planned attack on a robber's hideout Argis' Thane spoke up.

"Why don't you take some rest?"

Like he was an invalid. A cripple, not good enough to do his duty. He was good enough to cook, though, to listen to his Thane talk and to carry a shitload of junk, like he was some bloody pack-mule. Argis could feel the other soldiers casting covert glances his way. But he was not good enough to fight. Thus, Argis was banned from participating in the battle, tending to the camp instead. It was his fault, too. Bjorn had seen him in the training ring and commented on it. _How did one fight without one eye? Wasn't it terribly cumbersome? Had_ _the Jarl not said Argis was Markarth's most skilled warrior? He wasn't that good._

What hurt most was that it was true. When Bjorn opened his mouth once more, no doubt to spew another disparaging remark, Argis had snapped. "I was merely thinking… ," Bjorn began.

Argis did not let him finish. "Don't think. It doesn't suit you."

Bjorn stood there, dumbfounded. _Nords_. Couldn't they behave like civilized people? Here, everything was so different from Solitude, how was he to know what to do or say?" Not that Bjorn ever bothered to find out.

Argis was sure his enforced 'resting' was retribution for that incident.

 

After another successful mission they returned to Markarth in stony silence. All this business about being a Thane was rather stressful and Bjorn decided to find himself some pretty lass to help him relax. As he was wont to do.

Argis' room had no door and Argis did not want to listen to the man fuck his way through the town's sluts every night. As if sleeping wasn't difficult enough. He hit the bottle hard.

In the morning Argis' hangover put him in a foul mood. Bjorn on the other hand was obnoxiously cheerful, chattering ceaselessly. He suddenly noticed his housecarl's grumpy manner.

"What is it, Argis? Why so grumpy this morning?"

Argis looked up. He had fallen asleep shortly before dawn and gotten up only a couple of hours later. Politeness was quite beyond him at that point. "You could take your wenching somewhere else."

"Excuse me?" Bjorn's voice rose in indignation. How _rude_.

"I live here. And I'm trying to get some sleep," Argis replied.

"Well, you could live somewhere else," Bjorn threw back.

"Fuck, no." Argis liked Vlindrel Hall just fine. Especially now that Bjorn had spent a fortune on its furnishings. The man had good taste in home decorations; Argis had to give him that. It was his only positive quality that Argis could think of straightaway.

 

xxxx

 

Jarl Igmund was in danger of ripping out the last of his hair. Thane Bjorn had petitioned him this morning to have his housecarl move out of his manor. Trouble was, it was Argis' house, too. And removing ones housecarl entirely went against the purpose of having one in first place. What a headache. Both men stood before the throne, Argis cross-armed and silent, his Thane arguing his point and flailing his arms around ridiculously.

The only thing Argis said when asked why he was not willing to move out was "It's my house, too."

Jarl Igmund tried to find some middle ground. Turning to Argis he spoke "You had a home. Raerek tells me it is still available, maybe you could consider it?"

"No." The answer was curt and final.

Arguing the matter would not change the warrior's mind. Whatever had possessed the Jarl to assign Argis to Bjorn, Igmund was already regretting his decision. The men had nothing in common, Argis was as Nord as one could be; Bjorn on the other hand was all but Imperial with little regard for his homeland's values and traditions. It was a disaster about to happen.   Igmund would have kicked his own ass, were it anatomically possible. Taking a deep breath, he prepared for the protests he would have to put up with when he announced his decision.

 

xxxx

 

Bjorn was _not_ sulking. Behaviour like that was beneath him. He was however, in a very bad mood and terribly disappointed with his Jarl, who had taken Argis' side. The housecarl had paid for the house – much less than Bjorn, mind you - but Igmund had declared nonetheless that he had the right to live in Vlindrel Hall until he renounced it willingly. Bjorn could not understand how the man could arrive at such a decision. Probably because the Jarl's judgement was impaired by all that honour nonsense. In _Solitude_ some money would have changed hands and Bjorn would have gotten what he wanted. Here, in Markarth the Jarl only glowered down at the Thane, asking him in a low, dangerous voice if he thought the Jarl could be bought off.

And Argis. The man was a mystery. Bjorn had never encountered a more insubordinate and foul tempered servant. He had been nothing, but nice to the warrior. He let him rest anytime, because it was so very obvious how hard he was struggling. He had even proposed for Argis to stay at home and take care of a few minor tasks, to take it easy and relax. Did he get any gratitude? NO! . Bjorn tried to engross Argis in conversation; he had even offered to buy the man a house when it became clear he was arguing a lost cause! Argis had absolutely no manners, he drank, cursed and lived by that effing Nord code that Bjorn could not even begin to understand.

Bjorn sighed. He should not frown, it would give him wrinkles. Tonight there was a party, one the Silver-Bloods were hosting. Bjorn could not be absent from an event of such political and social importance. Fêtes such as this one were his favourite pastime. They offered him the possibility to socialize and engage in polite conversation with cultured and educated men and ladies. People on whom his charm and wit did not roll off like water off a duck's back. Bjorn was delighted by the Silver-Blood manor, the tasteful decorations and little delicacies that were served on polished silver trays. After a while of mingling the guests all seated themselves at the main table.

Bjorn's housecat took up position behind him, silent and brooding. Bjorn would not let the man's bad mood spoil the evening for him. These events were meant to be _fun_.

There was food and wine and Bjorn might have imbibed somewhat too much in the latter. How could he not, if there were servants at every corner waiting to refill his glass once it was empty? Proper servants. The alcohol loosened his tongue and Bjorn soon found himself in his element, entertaining a group of admirers. He kept telling jokes and stories and he even forgot how annoyed he was with Argis. From time to time he even tried to get his housecarl to talk, asking him questions. It became somewhat of a game to Bjorn, trying to get the man to react somehow.

Argis usually answered those with "Yes, Thane," or "No Thane." He did not care for the conversations of a pack of half-drunk sycophants who believed themselves to be better than everybody else.

Bjorn was already deep in his cups. Men couldn't hold his liquor to get this drunk from sweet wines, Argis thought when one thing made him listen up.

"Argis, you should grab yourself some pretty lass. It might help you relax, wipe that morose look from your face, maybe even replace it with a smile? Seriously, if you are this dour, you will end up all alone. An empty bed is a cold one."

In the following silence that settled over the table the sound of Argis crushing his mug was clearly audible. One edge bit into his hand and his blood started to flow and drip off his fingers, the scarlet shocking against the bright white of the tablecloth.

He did not feel the pain. Above the roaring in his ears Argis could only think that if Bjorn had the bad taste to make fun of his deceased lover, he could have at least done it when Argis was not present. He turned away and without asking for permission, he left the party. If there was an assassin lurking amongst the guests, waiting to stab his Thane with a salad fork or strangle him with a doily, he was welcome to do so.

The cold night air that hit him was a welcome change from the warm, stuffy interior. It helped him cool down somewhat as he slowly made his way back to Vlindrel Hall where he roughly patched up his wounded hand. His Thane had done nothing but disrespect him and his position and now he had the gall to humiliate him. He was at best treated like a liability, a burden weighing Bjorn down, an incapable milk-drinker who could not pull his own weight. The Thane talked down to Argis with all his fancy words and he had the audacity to try to throw a housecarl from the house! Argis knew then, that the rift between his Thane and himself could not be mended. Everything else he was willing to suffer, but that last remark had been the final straw. He could not forgive it.

Inside, Bjorn realised he had just made a mistake. Turning to the lady next to him, he put on his most charming smile. "What have I put my foot in, dear, would you explain to me?"

She was not swayed by his smile, as she would have been a moment ago. "That was the most tactless thing I have heard anybody say to his housecarl...ever! His lover was killed recently, in the Proving.

"Oh my, I did not know." Bjorn's regret was sincere.   "When did it happen?"

"Not four months ago. And how could you not know? The man is your húskarl and you did not even bother to find out?! You, sirrah, are despicable."

Bjorn knew he had overstayed his welcome. He too left the party, in far worse spirits than he had arrived in.

 

xxxx

 

They did not talk to each other again apart from when it absolutely could not be avoided. Bjorn had tried apologizing half a dozen times, all of which Argis ignored. Weeks passed and Argis kept up his training, trying to compensate for the loss of one eye by gaining experience. He was pleasantly surprised when found out that, unlike his swordsmanship, his archery skills had not suffered for the lack of an eye. Argis had never been much of an archer, but he valued those who were. For the first time in six months Argis approached Rolfrik. He had felt betrayed by his him, but that was one friendship Argis was not willing to give up. Rolfrik was surprised, but happy to help Argis improve his shooting skills.

Bjorn went back to his soirees and wenches. It still annoyed Argis no end that at night he had to listen to the wet slaps of flesh and the moaning. Bjorn could at least close the bloody door. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently it was. Well, two could play at this game. Argis calmly strapped on his armour, took up his shield and sword and with his most fierce was cry he stormed his Thane's bedroom.

The girl saw him first, screamed and scrambled up and away. She cast her lover an incredulous look, before collecting her clothes, dressing herself in record time and running – still barefoot – for the front door.

"Eiwen, come back!" Bjorn called after her, but Bjorn's slut only threw a precious vase at him, before inching carefully past Argis and making her escape.

Recovering from his shock, Bjorn turned a vivid scarlet. "What did you think you were doing!?" he demanded to know.

"Sorry, Thane. You screamed so loudly I thought you were being attacked," Argis replied calmly.

 

The tale of Argis the very vigilant housecarl spread like wildfire and Bjorn's nightly exploits ended rather abruptly. Or maybe he ran out of women. Lars, Rolfrik and the other soldiers laughed their arses off. Argis had few reasons for merriment. The Jarl wanted his Thane to deal with two Giants who had been killing livestock and its owners. Bjorn probably thought he could take them on singlehandedly.

Argis knew better. "Have you ever fought a Giant?" He had. Just once and damn, that had been one hairy battle.

"I do not think a pair of simple minded brutes will give me much trouble," Bjorn remarked offhandedly. He inwardly complimented himself on the double meaning.

"There is a reason they're called _Giants_. They're huge, tough and darn hard to kill."

His Thane did not heed Argis' warning and his suggestion to bring with them as many archers as they could to bring the Giants down from a safe distance. Bjorn thought there was no glory in killing something from afar. Glory he had no intention to share with Argis, who was assigned to watch the camp once again.

"Argis, you stay here. We wouldn't want you to strain your abilities. Under no circumstances I want you to interfere with my kills," the Thane ordered.

"Who the hell does he think he is?" A woman's voice said, once Bjorn was out of earshot.

"Careful, Sigrid. The man's still a Thane," Rolfrik reprimanded her.

"I don't care if he flails around with his pig-sticker or his fancy words. He ain't got no right to treat Argis like that."

 

The Giants were located a quarter day's march from their camp. When they set out, Bjorn's shoulders were tense; he did not look back. Rolfrik did. In the distance he saw a small figure trailing them.

Argis packed a small backpack, took his bow and set out after the main group. He'd be damned if he left his men to the command of his Thane. The soldiers were able to surprise the Giants, but the fight turned sour quite fast. The Giants were armed with huge, primitive but very effective clubs. Their reach was far greater than that of the humans and soon soldiers were forced to retreat, forming a half-circle around their enemies, but unable to approach. Rolfrik was the only archer, trying to get the Giant's attention by riddling them with arrows. It turned out to be a slow, but effective method. Maddened with pain the Giants soon started attacking at random. Behind them the soldiers swooped in to cut at their legs and bring them down.

Argis watched the battle avidly. His breath stocked when he saw one of the Giants dropping its club, which killed the unlucky soldier that had stood beneath it, and grab another man. It was Lars. The powerful, sinewy arms of the Giant could tear apart a grown man easily. Without thinking Argis knocked an arrow and loosed it. It hit the Giant close to the elbow and it roared in agony, but thankfully it dropped its catch. Lars scrambled beyond its reach and back into the safety of the circle of soldiers. While the soldiers killed the first, now unarmed Giant, a single man attacked the second one.

It was folly. Argis had little doubt who the lone figure was and he saw the exact moment when his Thane made not his first, but certainly his last mistake.

Lars was shouting something, waving his arms like mad.

Argis knocked another arrow; Rolfrik must have run out of his. A good shot might distract the Giant enough for Bjorn to get away. Bjorn had been darting around the creature, but he slipped – and fell. The Giant lifted its club and Argis drew his bow. He never took the shot.

 

xxxx

 

Jarl Igmund sighed. The soldier's reports were all the same, then again they were Argis' men and loyal. They would protect their leader at all costs. The short story was that Argis had been ordered not to interfere with his Thane's fight. Whether a housecarl's primary duty was to protect his Thane or to follow his orders was debatable. There had not been enough left of Thane Bjorn to bring back to Markarth and the Hall of the Dead. The soldiers had precious little good to say about the man, some going even as far as to spit on the floor.

"Do you have something to say to defend yourself?" Jarl asked the last question Argis himself.

"No, my Jarl." Argis would not compromise his men and their reports. Neither would he lie and pretend they were true.

With so much evidence in favour of Argis, Jarl Igmund had no choice but to clear Argis' name of all blame and dishonour.

 

xxxx

 

His Thane's death had been somewhat of a wakeup call for Argis. The seasons had turned from summer to spring and he had allowed himself to wallow in misery for too long.

It was only thanks to his friends that Argis became known as a man of terrible ill luck, instead of a disgrace to the title of húskarl. His men did not blame him. In his heart though, Argis knew that he had killed his Thane, as sure as if he had driven a blade through the man's chest himself. It troubled him and yet he could not find it in himself to feel any remorse. His life pretty soon returned to its former routine. Except that he stayed off the ale. Funny that a glass of warm honeyed milk would help him sleep much better. It was a secret he never intended for anyone to find out.

One day as he sparred with Lars, Argis felt his spirit lift. He saw his chance soon after, disarming Lars when he let down his guard. It was the first fight Argis had won in a year. He stared at the sword in the floor, not believing that it was not his. And then he began to laugh.

The next round was against Rolfrik. Argis won handily, tricking his friend into believing that his left side was open. Maybe he finally found out how to judge distances or maybe it was the boast to his confidence, but Argis' shield became once more the insuperable barrier he was known and named for.

Rolfrik approached Argis the next day, holding something in his hand. It was a three inch ling claw, blunted, polished and set in silver on a leather cord. Rolfrik handed the present over, his only words being "It's good to have you back."

"It's good I have friends like you," Argis replied sincerely. "How about I buy you an ale?"

Rolfrik chuckled and threw his arm across Argis' shoulders. He could feel whatever differences there had been between them mending. "How can I turn down such an offer?"

Together, the two friends made their way towards the Shambling Shed, a pub in the soldier's quarters.

It was not happiness, nor content, but for the first time since the fateful attack on the Forsworn, Argis felt at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate tormenting Argis. He tries so hard ;( 
> 
> Also I'm absolutely terrible with feelings. Writing this chapter was a nightmare; I rewrote it like four times because I could never get it quite right. Well, there it is now: lots of sorrow and repressed anger.


	9. Chapter 9

Argis was not one to wallow in the past, it was the past for a reason and that was where he intended to keep it. Today seemed different somehow. His visit to the Jarl early in the morning had brought up memories, some fond, others sad and all of them ones he had believed he had come to terms with a long time ago.

Standing before a tall looking glass Argis carefully studied his reflection. It was a strange thing, to be able to see one's own face. His appearance had not changed much in those four years. His left, marred side was a stark contrast to his right, undamaged one. The Nord of the Reach hated to admit it, but somewhere along the thousand years of war with the Forsworn, their bloodlines had mixed. Lots of people bore features of the Reachmen that were evident to all those who looked closely. With Argis it was his eyes. His right one was a bright, intense amber in colour. It looked back at him, guardedly, from above his tattooed cheek. His tattoo. Hákan had talked Argis into getting the marking, a sign of his prowess for everybody to see. There had been times when the deep red patterns had mocked him, but overall he was fond of it. It was a part of him now.

Turning away, Argis mustered his house. Vlindrel Hall had not changed, either. Nobody had come to claim the abundant furniture and decorations and so Argis was left living in a splendid manor.

Not that he had sat back, put his feet up and enjoyed it. After Bjorn's death Argis had taken on any and every mission there was. For a year he laboured close to breaking down, mentally and physically worn out beyond words. But the hard work had felt cleansing and after a while he let off, allowing himself to enjoy the occasional break, though he remained a driving force behind the campaigns against the Forsworn in the never ending struggle for the Reach.

He had renounced leadership however, leaving it to Brigge, a young and very talented commander. They argued sometimes and Argis, who was the more experienced warrior, had to pull ranks now and then, but more often than not they got along very well, forming a strong team. Brigge got his orders from the Jarl and his main duty was to tend to the army and to take care of the logistics; in other words he organized and coordinated everything.

Argis was left to oversee the training of the recruits, the preparations of his soldiers and he usually did the actual field work. He was content.

Argis had had ambitions, once. He no longer did.

Dreams had brought him little joy and too much sorrow when they were shattered.

 

Argis looked up when the first rays of sunlight began to stream in through the glass panels in the hall and dining room, casting jittering patters on the plush carpets. Argis had discovered many things about his house over the years. The constant drafts that had made the manor a chilly and uninviting place had stopped when Argis had pulled a lever out of curiosity. As it turned out there were a couple of ventilation grilles that could be opened or closed; a useful mechanism in a place that had only one door and no windows.

Another time, after a very powerful storm Argis saw that there was light shining through the ceiling. Vlindrel Hall was hewn into the mountainside. Its roof was on a rocky outcrop and it was flat and covered in earth and weeds. There, under a thick layer of dirt Argis discovered glass plates. Clear glass of a quality and craftsmanship that was not known to humanity. It was probably a relic of the Dwemer who had built Markarth and had mysteriously disappeared from the surface of Nirn many centuries ago. Argis had gone to great lengths to clean the glass and remove the soil. The flat space that few would call a 'rooftop' he converted into a small herbal garden.

After so much time, Vlindrel Hall had finally become home.

And now a stranger was to come and live here. 'Not just any stranger', Argis thought. His Thane. His _second_ Thane. It was an almost unheard of incident as a housecarl lived and died with the one he was sworn to protect with his own life. It was the only honourable thing to do, the only way for húskarla to ascend to Sovngarde and the Hall of Valor: defend their charges or die trying. They were more than mere warriors; a glorious death on the field of battle was not enough to strive for.

Argis had left his first Thane, Bjorn of Solitude, to die. He had been ordered by the very man not to aid him in his fighting and Argis had abided by these orders. Not out of respect for the man, but out of spite. It made all the difference in the Nord's mind.

The warriors who had accompanied him and most of the other soldiers, some of who were under Argis' command, did not hold him responsible; they understood what it meant to follow orders. Although the Jarl had cleared Argis' name there were others who would not talk to him, shopkeepers that would not sell him their wares and a couple of establishments where he would be a most undesired guest. Argis was not troubled by these circumstances, there were enough who welcomed him and the others had every right not to want to have him around. Over time he had grown indifferent to the various opinions and rumours that went with his name.

Argis' reputation was that of a warrior unmatched in skill and determination, dedicated to his Jarl and the war, and of a severe and unforgiving personality. He was believed to be aloof and of a remorseless nature that bordered on grim, violent though not outright cruel; his path was not one many dared to cross.

Therefore Argis could truly not tell why the Jarl still put his trust in him. He was not worthy of this _fourth_ chance he had been given. He avowed then and there that he would make his Jarl and his Thane proud if it was the last thing he did, as it should be.

He would start by making himself and his home presentable. After weeks of scouting and camping out in the wilds he, his armour and weapons needed some grooming. Argis had a thorough bath and carefully trimmed the beard around his mouth, as he had shaved his cheeks this morning already, because the tufts of hair between his scars looked funny.

Argis cleaned and polished his armour, oiled the leather parts and sharpened his weapons. He carried his dirty clothes – a rather large sack – to the washerwomen for them to deal with it. After all, he had his hands full cleaning Vlindrel Hall, removing the layer of dust that had settled in his absence, beating the carpets and restocking the pantry and ice cellar with victuals. He noted that the snow level was low, he would have to refill the chamber once winter arrived.

He worked quickly and efficiently, as he did everything else.

Midday came and Argis found he had nothing more to do but wait for the man who might decide the further course of his life. The thought made the Nord uneasy. Had he worried as much when he had been younger?

Instead of sitting around and driving himself to distraction Argis decided to pay the Shambling Shed a visit. The tavern was run by Halof, a Great War veteran and it had quickly become a popular establishment, one of the few not in the hands of the Silver-Blood family. The soldiers had their own mess hall, but the food there was so bland and of a seedy origin that many preferred to eat at the Shambling Shed instead. The men put their coin together and bought the groceries themselves and Halof prepared and cooked them, which allowed for cheap, tasty meals.

Argis pushed open the rickety door that hung askew once more, probably due to being unhinged during a brawl. Or maybe Halof had thrown out a drunken troublemaker without bothering to open it first. The landlord greeted Argis with a nod, beckoning for him to take a seat at the counter. The tavern was still empty, but it would fill up soon when the first of the men had their break. Argis followed the invitation and he lowered himself upon a stool, leaning his elbows on the counter. "Give me the strongest drink you've got," he said as a way of greeting.

Halof lifted his brows. Usually he did not sell alcoholic beverages during duty hours, but Argis was not officially a member of the army or the guard. And he looked like he needed it.

The veteran went into the back room and dug around until he found what he was looking for: a bottle of Colovian Brandy that he filled a tankard with. In a smooth motion that spoke of years of practice he slid the tankard across the polished counter without spilling any of the liquid inside. Argis downed the brandy in a few gulps, grimacing slightly at the burn in his throat, but he wordlessly lifted his mug for a refill. Halof complied, waiting patiently and watching his only patron with mild curiosity while and Argis nursed his second drink, quite obviously fortifying himself for something big.

"You look like you just got trampled by a hoarker," the veteran stated wryly. "Say, what's the matter?" By now he knew all that troubled his patrons. Halof had listened to so many confessions, he honestly considered charging his customers double: for the drink and the advice that went with it.

"I'm doomed," the blond Nord sighed heavily and indeed he looked to be at a loss, an expression the like of which Halof had not seen on him in...years. And that was not territory he dared to venture in, not unless he wanted to contribute an entire keg to the conversation. The landlord remained silent and let Argis work through things in his own pace.

But the housecarl obviously did not want to talk about whatever it was that had happened, changing the topic instead. "What's the word around town? Anything interesting going on while I was away?"

"Sven broke his hand in training, Dom's wife threw him out on the street again for fornicating and Brigge's in a mood because of fredas," Halof said. "But you already know that," he discarded the last piece of gossip. He was only warming himself up for the good part "And there's going to be a new Thane," the veteran added in a staged voice.

That certainly got Argis' attention who immediately asked "Who's it?" He was hard to read at the best of times, but Halof thought he could detect a tightness in the warrior's voice.

Something was nagging at the back of Halof's mind. He narrowed his eyes and mustered the man in front of him, but his train of thought escaped him. Ah, well, if it was important, it would come back. He only shrugged his shoulders in answer to the housecarl's question and resumed "And there was a man in here, asking about you."

Argis lifted his head at the news that did not sound good at all. As far as he knew there was nobody looking for him. "Who?" he asked, dreading the answer, because the only solution he could think of involved the Thalmor. His only consolation was that none of the soldiers would ever talk to the elves, as it would most likely doom them as well.

But Halof only shrugged, answering "Some stranger I haven't seen 'round before." The veteran's brows furrowed. "Come to think of it, he was quite subtle about it so that I didn't think anything was strange until after he left." He shrugged and lifted his hands when he saw Argis' look of disbelief "I didn't tell him nothing' he couldn't have found out anywhere else," he said, lifting his hands in exasperation. "At least he got the truth here, not the filthy hogwash Kleppr spreads!"

That much was true and Argis knew that Halof meant him no harm. He swirled the last dregs of his drink around in his mug, considering whether he wanted to confide in the landlord, whom he considered to be a friend, when the doors burst open, banging loudly against the wall and a throng of soldiers entered.

First and foremost in the line that formed to the bar was Lars, who cheerfully greeted the housecarl who sat to his right and turned to the landlord, calling out "Ho, Halof, why don't ya get me somethin' to wet me throat?"

"Aren't you sick of drinking your wits away every night?" Halof asked with no small amount of disgust.

"I get sick sometimes," Lars confirmed and with a big smile he continued "But then I drink some more to make it go away!"

Halof shook his head, grabbed a mug from under the counter and filled it up, shouting for his assistant to begin dishing out today's meal. He couldn't exactly refuse a Nord his drink or he'd be out of business before he could say 'mead'.

In the meantime Lars grinned up at Argis, blinked and did a double take, his customary smile disappearing slowly to be replaced with a worried frown. His friend looked miserable not at all like the composed, stalwart warrior he usually was as he dejectedly stared into his mug, like he was expecting to find an answer to his problems inside.

"Hey, Argis," Lars began cautiously "What's wrong? "Ya look like ya got fucked with the wrong end of a sword."

The blunt statement made Argis laugh out loud, but it was not an amused sound. Though crude, it described pretty well how he was feeling right now. He was saved from answering when Halof's assistant appeared from the kitchens and put the first plate in front of Argis, who immediately began to eat, though the normally good meal tasted like ashes to him today.

Lars obviously got the message and let him be, striking up a conversation with Halof instead. Getting Argis to do something when he did not want to was like working with a particularly intractable mule. You had to dangle a carrot in front of him, not kick as that would only make him dig his heels in all the harder. It wasn't the best comparison maybe, but it fit.

With a start the housecarl suddenly realized what it was that his friend and the landlord were talking about as a snippet reached his ears.

"...the Jarl's just declared it," Lars said, waving around a piece of parchment in evident excitement.

Argis leaned over and snatched it from his hands, wincing as a twinge of pain shot through his damaged arm when he twisted it the wrong way. He stared at the placard and the face that was depicted upon it. There were similar ones for wanted criminals, but this one was to notify the citizenry of a new Thane so that all could recognize him; in the streets the couriers probably cried the news so that all would know. 'Wulfryk, Thane of Markarth and the Reach', the big bold letters said. Argis felt lightheaded as all blood drained from his face. Up until now he had hoped that the Jarl had played just a cruel trick on him, but there was no more room for such fantasies now. "Where did you get this?" he asked hoarsely.

"They're all 'round the city," Lars answered and turned back to Halof again to pick up where they had left off. "Nobody's ever seen him before...I'm wondering..."

"You're still wondering about what happened to your sweets," Halof rudely interrupted him.

"They're disappeared," Lars cried. "It's a mystery!"

The truth was that Argis, Ralof and Thurek had gotten drunk one evening when Lars was on patrol and they had done the unthinkable: eaten another Nord's sweetrolls. Argis very much doubted that nobody had seen them, the soldiers probably were all afraid to accuse their commander and his closest friends for being the culprits. At any rate, watching Lars fumble in the dark was outright hilarious. Argis would have to make it up to the man for providing such a splendid source of amusement.

He would visit the bakery tomorrow, he decided, putting down the piece of parchment. There was nothing he could do about it now, anyways. On the morrow the entire city would know.

Halof caught a glimpse of the drawing and gaped. "That's the man who came by, the one I told you 'bout," he exclaimed in surprise, addressing Argis.

"What's he doin' in here?" Lars muttered. A Thane in the 'Shed? Halof must've savoured too much of his own mead.

"Asking about Argis," Halof said slowly and the housecarl could almost see the wheels turning in his head like in one of those ancient Dwemer machines that were exhibited in the Understone Keep. The veteran looked up and his eyes met Argis' and the warrior saw the understanding dawn in them. So Halof had figured it out already. They both completely ignored it when the doors were slammed open once more and another group of soldiers marched in.

"Is it true?" the veteran enquired in a hushed voice, looking around to make sure that nobody listened in and leaning across the counter.

"Is what true?" Lars asked distractedly, looking around for his other friends amidst the new arrivals and waving his arm when he spotted one "Oi, Rolf, over here!"

"Yeah," Argis sighed.

"Is what true?" Lars threw in again, turning back once more. "Argis? Is what true?"

It wasn't the housecarl that answered though, but Halof who silently explained "Argis got assigned a Thane, Lars."

"Oh," the soldier's eyes grew as wide as the plate he was eating from. "Oh." He looked from one man to the other, not sure whether they were not trying to trick him like they sometimes liked to do. Their dead serious expressions convinced him that it really was true. Well, that was some material for juicy gossip. At once Lars jumped up, turned around and, standing on tiptoe so he could look over the crowd, he yelled "Rolfrik! Hey Rolf!" Lars, bellowed enough for everyone to hear. "Guess what! Argis got a new Thane!"

There went Argis' hopes at keeping things quiet. He cast his friend a filthy glare and grumbled "Thank you for keeping your yapping hole shut." In the sudden silence that followed Lars' declaration his words rang out loudly.

"Hey, if you wanted to keep it a secret, you shouldn't have told me," Lars shot back, unfazed.

" _I_ didn't," Argis muttered, but his voice was drowned out by the clamour that ensued.

Within seconds Argis found himself surrounded by a circle of curious spectators, all of them pestering him with questions and looking at him expectantly.

"No, I don't know what he's like," the blond warrior shouted in answer to some of the enquiries "And I don't know where he came from," and "Dammit, it wasn't me cooling my heels in the city!" They wouldn't leave him be and he finally barked at them in annoyance "What are you gawking at, you bloody clods? Go away and get back to your drinking or I'll have you working double shifts!"

"On your orders," somebody shouted and another voice added "Anybody wish he'd say that more often?" and a wave of laughter followed. Slowly the crowd dispersed again, the soldiers either congratulating Argis or voicing their sympathies. Apparently they could not make up their minds whether they should be happy for the housecarl or as upset as he himself felt.

Only two remained: Lars and Rolf who had fought his way through the crowd with the help of his elbows. "When's he to arrive?" Argis' second-in-command asked the warrior.

"After court," Argis replied. That meant five at the earliest. He still had hours to kill.

"We can help you get drunk to make you less nervous," Lars offered helpfully.

"Oh, yes, that will make for a very good first impression, muttonhead," Rolf stated wryly and tangled his fingers in Lars' short, red hair, before yanking him backwards off the stool and taking the seat for himself.

Lars picked himself up in record time and appeared at Argis' right side. "Bit late for that, don't you think," he shot back and looking round he simply pulled the seat from under the man next to him. It was a good way to start a brawl and when the soldier climbed to his feet again and lifted his fists, cursing like an old sailor, Lars used the stool whack him upside the head and knocked him clean out. His friends dragged the unconscious man off and nobody else battered an eyelash. The Shambling Shed was not one of those fancy places where one had to show manners. It was loud, rowdy and full with fighting men out to have a good time.

"Come on, Argis," Rolf tried to cheer up the warrior "This is what you were meant to do. You'll be fine!"

Argis snorted. "Sure, I only got my last Thane killed. No problem, I'll just get another one. Lately they sprout in Markarth like mushrooms," he muttered dismally.

"Yeah," Lars threw in readily "But ya get better with practice, as they say."

"Gods," Argis choked out. He honestly no longer knew whether he felt like crying or laughing. Both, probably. His friends kept drinking and they did make a marvellous job of distracting him. Some time later they began to analyse his good and bad attributes. The amount of mead they consumed however, soon had the talk spinning into the ridiculous.

"You're the best fighter in all the Reach," Rolf counted out for the fourth time.

"Ya can be a bossy arse, though," Lars countered and tried to clap the housecarl on the shoulder in consolation, missed and hit himself instead, adding "Yar still me bestest friend though."

"And you're all scar...scary...scarry and," Rolf's finger hovered unsteadily in front of Argis' face for a moment and poked him in the chin, before the blond warrior slapped his hand away. "And you've got a t...tat...tatoo," the archer stammered out and grinned like it was all the explanation Argis would ever need.

"Well, ya ain't no virgin though and that's a minus," Lars called out, giggling like a madman.

Rolf seemed perplexed at the sudden change. "What's that got to do with anything? It's not like he's goin' to be naked.

"Ya could, Argis, ya'r kinda hot," Lars said to the housecarl and hurriedly added "for a man."

Rolf just stared at the redhead, shaking his head slowly enough that his vision did not spin. The man should be gagged.

"What?" Lars shouted when he saw the look Rolf gave him. "I'd totally do him if he were a gal. Or if I was into the other thing," he mused.

Halof listened in on Lars and Ralof debate Argis' virtues and after disappearing shortly he returned with a full tankard that he handed the blond warrior, who had buried his head in his hands, probably trying to block out the slurred voices of his friends, who still argued back and forth.

"Drink's on the house."

 

Argis left the tavern shortly after, but first he charged Halof with keeping a close eye on his friends to prevent them from doing something stupid, like showing up at his doorstep later. The last thing Argis needed was for Lars to vomit on the man who was to become his Thane. Halof promised he would keep the drink flowing and by the time the two of them drank their way through the tab Argis paid for, they wouldn't be going anywhere.

Arriving in Vlindrel Hall Argis first lit a fire and seated himself in a comfortable chair next to the fireplace. It was a strategic location; he would see his Thane, before the other man saw him. An advantage like this was often crucial in a fight. He was telling himself that he was preparing to meet his Thane, not going into battle. Not that it helped. He'd rather _be_ in a battle.

Argis nibbled on a piece of bread, more because he needed something to do, than because he was hungry. And sharpening his sword might send the wrong message, if it was the first thing his Thane would see after he walked in. He kept glancing at the door every few seconds and his foot bounced up and down restlessly in a show of nerves that he would never allow himself when he was with his men.

Suddenly, there was the scrape of a key in the lock. Argis went stock-still; he put away his food and dusted his hands of the crumbs, his composure perfectly calm once more.

It was the calm that came before the storm.

'This is it', he thought. His future life hinged on the next minutes. That might be putting it a bit dramatic, but it was true nonetheless. Everything was in order. Now it was only up to Argis to make a good impression.

The massive doors to Vlindrel Hall swung open and Argis saw the silhouette of a big man block out the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have Wulf in this chapter, I really really did, dammit! But the words...they just keep coming...Argh! Next time, I promise!


	10. Chapter 10

 Wulfryk looked around from where he was standing on the top of the stairs that led to his new home, Vlindrel Hall. He was breathing heavily from carrying his gear up all those flights of stairs, but the view over Markarth alone was worth it. He was not at the highest point of the city, that would be the temple of Dibella, but like all the fine manors it was in the upper district, away from the clamour of the market and the smithies, the poverty of the warrens and the smoke that coiled thickly from the silver smelters.

Wulf had acquired the Hall yestereve, when Jarl Igmund had proclaimed him Thane of the Reach. Another title and more duties he neither needed nor wanted. There already was a weight to his name that Wulf wholeheartedly wished away, but to no avail, as the gods had once more made him the butt end of one of their jokes.

After what had happened he had shaken off the responsibility, cut his ties with both friends and the Companions, with the Jarl and with Whiterun. It was better this way. They would be better off for the lack of his company, even if not all agreed with him.

Only, Wulf had ended getting caught in the very same net once again and though he had seen the pattern, there had been nothing he could have done about escaping it. He had proven himself a capable warrior and done the Jarl a favour and thus he had been gifted the title of Thane. Things had proceeded almost too fast for him to comprehend, until he found himself shaking Jarl Igmund's hand, smiling an entirely fake smile and nodding his head whilst inwardly he wanted to scream in frustration. Wulf's only consolation was that here, far away from the Whiterun Hold he was just a stranger. A powerful one, thanks to his new position, but a stranger nonetheless.

Nobody knew about his heritage that some superstitious fools called destiny, about him being a Companion and the slayer of a dragon, a reluctant hero that none would hail were they to know about his true nature. Because Wulfryk had secrets, ones that he preferred to keep in the dark, far from the light of prying eyes and the possibility of being overheard by curious ears.

Markarth had been as far as he could have run without outright leaving Skyrim and he was not ashamed to admit, that run he did. At least to himself. Nobody else needed to know and, best of all, nobody did.

Maybe having the title of Thane would not be so bad, after all. He had needed a house that would suit his position and Wulf had coin aplenty and no desire to keep it. So now here he was, staring at the metal doors and wondering what lay behind them. A better future, hopefully.

Although the probability was higher it would just be a dusty anteroom. Oh well, one should take what one could get. Even if it came with spiders. Farkas probably wouldn't agree, but the big warrior wasn't here. Wulf felt grief and guilt wash over him. He sorely missed his friend; things had never been the same again since their accursed trip to Dustman's Cairn. Since the Silver Hand had... – with a start Wulf realized he had been doing it again; wallowing in the past.

He couldn't change the events that had gone before and wishing things had never happened would not make them undone. Wulf felt his mood soured by his little memory trip and kicked open the door to his new home, partially to blow off steam and because he had his hands full towing in his pack and personal effects.

Once inside, he looked around curiously, distracted by the interior. He had feared that if Vlindrel Hall was anything like the palace, he would be living in a boiling tea kettle. But everything was quiet, there was no rubble lying strewn around, no mechanical clamour, no pipes from which steam escaped with a high-pitched whistle and – thank the divines for it – no Dwemer sculptures made from scraps of junk metal. Whoever had been tasked with the interior decoration of the palace should be banned from his occupation for a lifetime.

However, Wulf found himself standing on a thick carpet and looking up at the ceiling, through which light filtered to illuminate the corridor and the plants that grew in huge pots. It looked welcoming, so he made to enter the living room. He didn't make it far.

"Boots off!" a deep voice suddenly barked, making Wulf jump a foot in the air and drop what he was carrying.

Wulfryk's hand closed around the hilt of his sword before he even registered the action, his eyes roving across the room and setting on a place deep in the shadows, behind fireplace. He couldn't see the speaker, but the man sure sounded like he meant business and Wulf obediently towed his shoes off. No need to piss off his amiable host, whoever the guy was.

There was the creak of a chair and a figure detached itself from the dark corner. The other man stepped forward, into the light of the fire and Wulf could see he looked maybe a bit embarrassed and, almost shyly, he said in a hoarse voice "My Thane...welcome to Vlindrel Hall."

Oh. So that's who he was. Of course, the Jarl had told him he would have a housecarl, only Wulf's brain hadn't made the connection yet. He realized he was still gripping his sword and let go abruptly, thinking of something he could say in return.

Only he was distracted by the way the warrior's upper arm strained against his shirtsleeve when he raised his hand to scratch at his neck in obvious discomfort.

Wulfryk quite openly seized up the hunk of a Nord that had been assigned as his húskarl. He had to give the man credit for not fidgeting under his unblinking stare, but then Argis was a beast of a man, Wulf thought, not only for his ferocious looking scars, but his physique alone. And that was coming from somebody, who had spent the past two years with the Companions, Skyrim's most fabled warriors. Argis might not be as tall as either of the twins, but he could easily keep up with Farkas when it came to breadth of shoulders and chest.

At six feet and an inch of height and over two hundred pounds, Wulf by no means of reckoning on Tamriel could be called a small man. Argis was both taller and he must have had forty pounds on Wulfryk. _At least._ Well, there was nothing like a trip to his homeland to make Wulf feel like the runt of the litter.

 

xxxx

 

Argis berated himself for the umpteenth time for the way he had reacted. This wasn't one of the soldiers he could order around. He only hoped he hadn't scared the poor sod out of his mind.

The guy was still staring at him like he had never seen another human being before and quite frankly, it made Argis uncomfortable. For some reason he felt like a bloody steak presented to a wolf, the way his Thane's piercing blue eyes were drilling into him.

He took the time to muster the man in turn. He had a muscular build, obviously a fighter by the way he carried himself and by how quickly he had reacted when Argis had spoken up. That was all that mattered, although Argis noticed other things as well, like his handsome Nord features, unusually dark skin, black hair and short, but thick beard that was trimmed close to his Thane's jaw line.

As if a spell was broken, the man suddenly broke into a wide smile. It seemed Argis had passed the inspection. The corner of one of his front teeth was chipped, giving his Thane's smile a crooked, but somewhat endearing appearance.

"I'm Wulf," he said, extending his hand. "And you must be Argis. I have heard the stories," he added with a wink.

Of course he had heard them. The man had been snooping around, after all. Still, Argis took the offered hand, pleased to find the palm calloused and the grip strong.

"That's me," Argis replied. 'And the first time I've heard anything about _you_ was this very morning' he thought and said "It is an honour to meet you, Thane."

Unknowing to him, Wulfryk had heard those words before, but the Thane only reacted with a twitch of his lips, before he turned to survey the living room, humming in appreciation.

"Did you furnish the place?" he asked, curiosity mixing with a note of wonder in his voice.

"No, the man who lived here before," Argis answered curtly. It was almost true.

Wulfryk tilted his head to the side, as if his housecarl's answer presented a riddle that needed to be solved. "But you live here, right?" he enquired further. The Jarl had mentioned something like that, only Wulf hadn't been paying much attention.

He knew he had hit a sore spot when Argis visibly bristled. "It's my house, too," the blond warrior replied as if daring him to say otherwise.

Wulf wasn't suicidal enough to argue; besides he had no problem with the two of them sharing the mansion, unless Argis made a habit of jumping him from dark corners. After the dormitory in Jorrvaskr having his own room was almost a novel experience.

Argis watched the Thane slowly walk around the room and take everything in before the man came to a stop in front of the main fireplace and shot a meaningful glance at the cooking utensils that hung suspended above it "I see you like to cook."

Argis shrugged. "Not really. I like to eat well, though. Which makes cooking a necessity." If his Thane thought he'd be his cook or personal servant or something, he'd better think again. Else, Argis would make him.

"That's good." Wulfryk nodded his approval. "I can hunt but I can't cook worth shite. I'm pretty good with the bottle opener, though," he admitted, casting Argis a sheepish smile over his shoulder.

Despite himself, Argis felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. The guy seemed to be alright. And preparing a meal for two wouldn't be any more of a bother than it was for one. Maybe they would get along, despite his worst fears. For all the talk Argis had heard about the Thane, the man seemed to be fairly easygoing.

Right now he picked up the trunk he had dropped in the corridor and after hefting it up with a grunt he straightened and looked at Argis with expectation. At first the housecarl did not know what he was supposed to do or say, until he realized that his Thane probably wanted to unburden himself from all that he was carrying as well as his pack, which he had yet to put down.

Argis pointed further inside the house and said "Your room's at the left side, Thane." He bent to pick up a few fallen items, placed them on the table and followed the other man, leaning against the doorframe to his Thane's room with his arms crossed.

He was sworn to serve the man; he might as well put some effort into befriending him, as that would undoubtedly make his job more pleasant and a great deal easier. Besides, his Thane looked a bit lost as he stood in the middle of the bedroom, staring at the bed.

When he noticed Argis watching him, Wulfryk explained "I'm thinking about where to put things."

"There's lots of free space," Argis commented, pointing with his chin at the empty dressers.

"That's the problem." Wulf surveyed the small heap on his bed that was all of his meagre possessions.

With a pang Argis realized what it was, that his Thane was saying. The bundle of clothes, pots, and souvenirs was all he had. Out of the two of them it had been Argis living in the lap of luxury.

"Eh, scratch that," Wulfryk suddenly huffed and put his trunk into the bigger chest at the foot of the bed. He scooped up the loose items, placing them on a shelf and tossed his pack and clothes messily into the wardrobe. Only a thick leather-bound book was carefully placed on top of the nightstand. Argis' Thane dusted off his hands like he had completed some great achievement, turned to Argus and asked "So, is there someplace we could go for a drink?" Before Argis could answer he added "It's on me."

Now, that was a decent thing to do. Argis wasn't about to turn down the offer. "Just let me get my things," he grunted before he disappeared into his own room for a moment.

When he came back out he had a longseax slung over his shoulder and in his left hand he carried a large, painted shield. It depicted a stone wall with a city gate that bore striking resemblance to Markarth's own gates.

'The Bulwark', indeed, Wulf thought. Argis carried his armour with surprising ease, almost as if the steel weighted nothing at all. Wulf knew a dangerous man when he saw one; Argis set off every warning bell in his mind. There was no reason why the housecarl should wish him any harm, though so he left behind his skyforge steel sword, but he did take his fighting knife with him, just in case. He doubted he would need anything else. Wulf was a dangerous man, too.

He walked besides Argis as the housecarl led them through several winding alleyways that Wulf had not yet set foot in. In the dark he was lost after the fifth turn, but Argis' sure stride convinced him of the fact that the housecarl knew where he was going. To strike up a conversation, Wulf asked "You've been living in Markarth for long?"

"Almost two decades, Thane," Argis replied.

Wulf could not imagine what it was like, to spend one's entire life in one place, but he knew that this was the rule for most people and that his own lifestyle was the exception. He wondered where Argis had grown up, because the man was older, probably by another ten years or so, but the question felt too personal for Wulf to ask.

A short while later, Argis spoke up once more "Here we are."

Wulf looked up at the building in front of them and the green letters above it that read 'The Jolly Giant'. The wooden sign showed a drunk giant dancing around a fire. Wulf snorted. He had seen a few of the creatures and their herds of mammoth, but they never stroke him as particularly jovial.

But despite the unremarkable exterior the tavern was welcoming on the inside, brightly lit by many candles and warm due to the fires roaring in two fireplaces. They took a small table in a comfortable nook at the back of the room. The benches had cushions that were covered by cloth woven from many colours, making the room look cozy and inviting and sitting decidedly more comfortable. The candle had tilted a bit and wax dribbled onto the table where it congealed. Wulf scratched at it, because it gave him something to do with his hands.

Thankfully, it did not take long for an elderly serving woman to arrive at their table. Apparently she and the housecarl knew each other well, because she greeted him warmly and by his name.

"Good to see you Argis, dear. It's been some time since I've seen you here. Been drinking at the 'Shed lately?" she then scolded, casting him a sharp look.

With a sigh she patted his hand to show she wasn't really angry at him and Wulf saw Argis smile warmly up at her. "Hello, Agata. You know I can't bring the boys here, you forbid me to do so myself."

"Damn right I did!" she exclaimed with no small amount of self-righteousness. "But your friend is welcome here, he looks to be of the decent sort," she said more to Wulf, who watched the entire exchange with a great deal of amusement.

"It will be the usual, yes?" she asked Argis, who was left feeling uncomfortable at her last words, but refused to show it, and without waiting for his answer she turned to Wulf "And you, dear?"

Wulf chose a dark root ale and the woman left to bring their orders. To avoid an awkward silence from setting in he opted for another question "So, have you been a housecarl long?"

"Nearly six years. I was in training before and in the army before that."

"It must be very strange, having somebody move in so suddenly," Wulf prompted.

Argis was not sure whether this was meant as a weird sort of apology or as a test. He doubted it was the latter, Wulfryk did not strike him to be of the underhanded sort, but out of caution he replied formally "It's an honour to serve you, Thane."

Although, thus far, Argis had found out that he preferred his position as a housecarl when there was no Thane attached to it.

Wulfryk looked up and his Thane's blue eyes met Argis' amber one. "You'll choke on those words one day, Sunshine." The grin Argis got was outright predatory.

'Sunshine'? Argis' heartbeat picked up. Something told him the man was trouble. And, for better or worse their fates were now intertwined.

It was a relief when Agata arrived and put down two mugs in front of them as well as a huge pan of spicy potato slices and a bowl of sour cream to dip them in.

"It's on the house," the serving woman said with a wink and scurried off again.

"I see you come here often," Wulf asked Argis when she was out of earshot.

"I used to," the housecarl replied with a shrug and reached for a potato chip, despite them being hot from the oven.

Wulf dipped in as well and cursed vulgarly when he burned his fingers. He shook his hand and sucked on the hurt digit.

"Careful, Thane, they are hot," Argis warned him in a flat tone, although with barely conceiled amusement.

Wulf shot him a dark glare and snapped "Thank you, serah obvious."

"You're welcome, serah oblivious."

There was a sudden silence as Argis realized what he had said and to _whom_. For a moment he almost had believed he had been trading banter with one of his friends. Now, he found himself cursing inwardly at his lapse.

His Thane sniffed with affront, levelled his potato accusingly at Argis' face and in a silent voice he muttered. "Fine. You win this round."

Argis blinked, stunned. He saw Wulfryk's lips quirk in an attempt to hide his smile. His Thane wasn't angry?

The other man let his mask fall away, crunched on his food and promised "I'll get you next time."

A challenge, if Argis had ever heard one. Apparently his Thane did not know that Argis never backed away from a challenge.

"So, what's with the no shoes rule?" Wulf abruptly changed the course of their conversation.

Argis grunted, talking a gulp of ale from his foaming tankard. Somehow he knew he would never hear the end of it if. "Do you know how much work it is to clean the carpets?" he enquired.

"Ummm, no?" Wulf had never owned a carpet. He certainly had never cleaned one.

"I propose a deal, Thane." Argis leaned over the table. "If you make sure to clean them afterwards, you get to keep on the boots."

For reasons unknown Wulfryk thought accepting the offer was a really bad idea. "No, thank you," he refused. When Argis chuckled, Wulf knew for certain he had made the right choice.

The blond warrior warmed up to him a bit after Wulf put his charm to work. Argis didn't dislike him, but he was suspicious by nature and it took a while until he began to ask questions of his own. An hour later found them with their old drinks, but a new pan, engrossed in conversation.

His housecarl's gruff nature and coarse manners didn't bother Wulf in the least. He had spent his life amongst fighting men, a lot of them being of the unsavoury sort. Argis wasn't like that, Wulf could tell. The man had a code of honour that he stuck to and a duty he took seriously. In many ways he resembled the Companions. Wulf wondered whether throwing a sweetroll at someone in Markarth was as sure a sign of fondness as it had been in Jorrvaskr. It certainly would be hilarious to find out.

Argis felt himself relaxing. Experience told him he shouldn't be letting down his guard, but in his gut he knew he could trust this man. At least a little bit. Argis felt a smile pull at his mouth. This wasn't like it had been with Bjorn at all. It was more like catching up to an old friend whom he had not seen in a long time. Maybe the Gods listened to his prayers, after all.

 

That night Argis awoke abruptly to a loud crash and cursing. Somebody was in his house. That was one thief who had picked the wrong house. Before he was fully awake, Argis grabbed his sword that leaned against the wall next to his bed and he charged out of his room, ready to confront the intruder.

He almost stumbled across the man who lay sprawled on the floor, hopelessly tangled in a chair. He was only wearing pants and, when he saw Argis storm out of his room with a bellow, he looked panicked for one moment.

"What is the..." Argis did not get much further, before it dawned on him that this man was his Thane, as of yesterday. He suddenly felt slightly embarrassed, not because he was stark naked, but because he still held his sword at guard. He lowered the tip, letting it sink to the floor between his feet and surveyed the scene, though he could not discern much in the near total darkness, now that the fire had burned low.

Wulf blinked. He had a nice, if upside-down view of Arigs' privies. He would have whistled, only he didn't fancy being skewered for it. Instead, he settled for flattery. "Ah, my faithful housecarl arrives in my time of need."

"Thane!?"

"I was set upon by this dastardly piece of mahogany furniture in a most vicious way."

"What?"

Damn it, wasn't it evident? "I lost the fight with the chair," Wulf whined pitifully.

Argis stared at him for a moment longer and, without comment he shouldered his sword, turned around and marched back into his room, muttering something Wulf did not catch, the tone of which he knew well though.

If Wulf was going to trip over his feet and make a fool of himself, he'd rather do it sooner than later. Gods forbid, people might take him seriously otherwise. Another memorable performance by Wulfryk Blacktyde. He cursed when trying to wriggle out from under the back rest caused his leg to twist in the wrong way.

 

Thanks to his Thane's nightly escapade, Argis had some trouble falling asleep again and in the morning he slept longer than usual. When he awoke it was to vivid cursing. Argis had a strange sense of having lived through this once already, a few hours ago. He listened to the profanities and thought that his mother would have threatened to wash his Thane's mouth with soap; for a man of such good looks, he certainly could spew some filth.

"...damn to Oblivion the shitheaded, sodding son of a snowtroll who first thought of them bloody stone beds," closely followed by more unhappy mutters "Of all the surfaces one could sleep on, how did a stone slab win?!"

Argis winced in sympathy, it looked like asking his Thane whether he had had a good night was an excess in futility. When he entered the dining room, he saw Wulfryk massaging his back with one hand and picking at his food with a fork with the other. There was a pan with scrambled eggs and a few slices of bread on the table as well as dishes for two. It wasn't the right pan, but Argis was willing to give his Thane credit for trying. Having another man in his house wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant either.

"We should invent a new house rule, besides the no-shoes-thing," Wulfryk greeted him when Argis sat down next to him.

"What would that rule be, Thane?"

"Banishment of clothes," Wulfryk stated confidently.

"Dream on. I won't fight off your enemies in nothing but my dignity," Argis grunted. He refrained from mentioning that there had been no need for clothes when he had been living alone.

"You did yesterday," Wulf pointed out.

"What was that, if I may ask, Thane?"

"I wanted to go to the bathroom and I tripped," Wulf hastily explained. He had forgotten the single step in front of his room, slipped on the marble floor and crashed into the table with enough force for him to roll down on the other side. All because there was a bathroom. A huge one with the freaking biggest bathtub set in the stone floor that Wulf had ever seen. Argis had given him the tour of the house yesterday, when they had returned from the tavern.

His housecarl chose not to comment further. Instead he asked "Do you have any orders, Thane?"

Wulf nodded. Indeed he did. "Go, buy me a bed."

Argis forewent chewing in favour of staring at the man sitting opposite him. "What?"

"It's not that difficult a task," Wulf said, furrowing his brows. "Buy a bed," he repeated. "A big one. With four posts. And with canopies. And a lovely mattress, but make sure it's not too soft. It shouldn't be too hard, either." That about covered it. "Oh, don't forget the bedding."

"Anything else?" Argis sighed.

His question might have been rhetoric, but Wulfryk cheerfully answered "No, that about covers it." After a moment of thought he addressed Argis once more. "How can you stand it?"

"What?" Argis asked absent-mindedly, as he was pondering where he would get a bed from for his Thane. Markarth was a city of stonemasons, not carpenters. He didn't see his Thane narrow his eyes at him in suspicion.

"Sleeping on stone, Sunshine." When Argis only fidgeted with the tablecloth and failed to answer, the truth downed on Wulf. "Wait! Do you have a bed?" he suddenly burst out.

"Of course I have a bed," Argis replied gruffly. He hadn't commented on Markarth's stone beds, else he would have been honour-bound to offer his Thane his own bed. Only, no fucking way was Argis going to sleep on a cold, hard slab of stone. He wasn't crazy like that and he wasn't young anymore. His Thane didn't exactly look happy with the revelation. Argis couldn't blame him.

"Are you sure you don't want to come to make a choice?" he asked his Thane without much hope, but in attempt to be nice.

Wulfryk shook his head in negation as soon as the housecarl had begun to speak. "No, I need to meet with the Jarl. Speaking of which, what time is it?"

"Half past seven," Argis guessed. He usually was right about it too.

His Thane visibly blanched. "Then I should have been there half an hour ago." He jumped got up and jogged to his room in order to dress more formally, leaving Argis to clean up after breakfast.

A very short time later Wulfryk was about to leave when Argis' deep voice made him stop mid-step.

Wulf honestly couldn't tell if the man was being serious or making fun of him when he said "Have fun at court."

His Thane turned around to grin at Argis before retorting "Have fun lugging the furniture up all those stairs."

He got him there. Argis sighed. It would be a long day for them both, by the looks of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our hero, our hero claims a clumsy heart. Beware, beware the dragonborn comes...stumbling along...
> 
> And Argis...you're charm in person


	11. Chapter 11

After finishing his breakfast alone, Argis quickly put away the dishes, grabbed a heavy, fur-lined, albeit sleeveless vest against the cold and left Vlindrel Hall to fulfil the assignment given to him by his Thane. Whilst he wasn't exactly overjoyed by the task, he nonetheless was in a light-hearted mood that bordered on cheerful, whistling a merry tune to a drinking song that Lars had made up a long time ago. His body seemed to be humming with an excess of energy that he would have to work off in the training ring later.

In spite of, or maybe because of his recent doubts concerning his appointment as housecarl and the man who would be his Thane, Argis found that he was looking forward to what today would bring with no small measure of excitement.

He couldn't believe that only one day had passed since his routine had been interrupted by a summoning of the Jarl. For the first time since that morning he felt like he had solid ground under his feet again and not like somebody had pulled the rug from under him. And it felt good.

Should any problems arise, Argis would tackle them head on. That's who he was, not that nervous wreck from the day before. He would not let any differences or misunderstandings get between him and his Thane, the way it had happened four years ago. Better to start with a clean slate and suffer through disagreements now than to let them lie and fester.

With that decision firmly in mind Argis began his search though true to his concern neither of Markarth's two best established carpenters had what he needed. There was no use in roaming any of the smaller shops and thus the housecarl followed one of the craftsman's advice to visit another cabinetmaker's workshop that was located outside of the city.

The day was shaping up to be beautiful with the sun shining down from a cloudless, deep blue sky and the dry, frozen grass crunched under Argis' feet as he made his way to behind the soldier's barracks, past pens for livestock and to the corrals where several small herds of horses grazed. A ride sounded just about perfect right now and he would cover the distance much faster on horseback.

He had taken a rather large amount of coin with him and promptly decided to settle his debt with Volkar, the military's own stable master from the monthly rent he paid for having his horse stabled, groomed, fed and worked if he did not have time; even though it was not due yet.

Argis had learned to ride as a part of his training, after all he had to be able to keep up with a Thane should he be mounted, but he had kept riding long after his training was over. He had always liked and admired the big, friendly animals and there were few activities besides sword fighting that let him find a deep, inner calm where he could forget his worries and the rest of the world and just enjoy the moment. Three years ago the warrior had bought his stallion cheaply as a two year old at an auction. More because he had searched for things that would keep him occupied in his free time than because he needed a horse. It was a pity he seldom found the time for a leisurely ride.

Argis made good use of the opportunity, warming up his horse with a brisk walk before he allowed it to let off steam in a rapid gallop. He reached his destination, a tiny settlement with a huge mill after an hour of hard riding.

The Reach was ragged country, full of stone canyons and deep valleys with winding rivers and huge mountain ranges in between gentle rolling hills. Few trees grew in this harsh land; mostly juniper, yew, twisted mountain pines and tall firs that reached towards the sky in places where the soil was thick enough for them to sink their roots in.

The best Nord longbows were made of yew and came from the Reach, but the same could not be said of furniture. Quality wood was expensive in Markarth and not easy to come by and the majority of it was supplied by the very workshop that Argis now entered.

Most people simply stuffed mattresses to make their stone beds more comfortable or bought cheap bunks, but his Thane had made a special request and it was up to Argis to make sure he got it.

The proprietor of the shop greeted the housecarl warmly and was overjoyed to hear his demand.

"Thank Zenithar," the elderly man cried, clapping his hands and led them to a storage room. "I have exactly what you need. Ordered by the late Madame Clea Silverblood and never paid for, I thought I'd never get rid of it," he confessed in a rush. "I do not usually give discounts, but I am willing to make an exception this time."

Argis found out why the man was so forthcoming and eager to sell off the bed as soon as he saw it. It was a huge, cumbersome thing and ugly as fuck with all its carvings of wood fairies and the Divines knew what else and Argis was half of a mind to turn down the offer, but that would leave him standing empty handed with an order that would take much time to fulfil. He shrugged. The warrior had asked his Thane to accompany him after all. The man had lost his right to decide when he had refused.

"I'll need it delivered," Argis pointed out. "Today."

"Markarth?" the carpenter asked and resumed without waiting for an answer "It's a good thing I have a cart and two strong sons to help you carry it, for a little extra that is. They will take it apart and reassemble it indoors. Quite a clever mechanism. I have invented it myself..."

Before the old man could get lost in his tale about hinges and joinery, Argis interrupted him somewhat brusquely. The housecarl paid half of the original price, which was still a great amount of gold, without complaining. He was glad to have found something and eager to be done with it. True to the old craftsman's word, his two sons loaded the bed onto the dray but when it came to carrying it up Markarth's stairs, Argis had to lend a hand, or rather two, and a great amount of muscular strength besides.

The temperature might be below freezing, but before they were done, the three Nords had doffed their warm clothes, leaving on only their shirts that were plastered to their backs with sweat. When they finished at long last, Argis offered his helpers drinks as refreshment and they left with words of thanks, tired but happy after receiving their ‘little extra’.

After their departure the housecarl finally had his home to himself. As a cause of the heavy lifting he had done, his right arm had begun to cramp up and Argis sank down in a chair and with a grunt of discomfort he began to massage the damaged limb, shaking out and loosening his spasming muscles.

The injury had happened recently, one battle wound of many that was making itself known at unfortunate times.

The pulling sensation never stopped, but the pain faded away over time, as always. By the time it did Argis had purchased all the bedding his Thane would ever need, eaten dinner and was currently debating whether he should visit the training grounds and find somebody willing to spar with him or whether he should wait for his Thane to come back from his meeting with the Jarl.

On one hand he had no idea when the man would return, on the other a housecarl should always be where his Thane expected him to be.

The decision was taken from him when the doors opened and Wulfryk entered, kicked off his boots messily and proceeded by tossing his overcoat at a chair and missing. He did not pick it up, leaving it on the floor and Argis felt a twinge of annoyance course through him. The housecarl still rose to greet his Thane formally, receiving a nod and a tired smile as an answer.

 

Wulf brushed past the man who was standing at attention and walked directly into his bedroom, wanting nothing more than to grab a little shut-eye.

"Now that's a welcome sight." Beds were the one crucial piece of furniture that Wulf could think of straight away. He would have to remember to thank Argis for it later.

"Is there anything else you would have me do, Thane?" the man enquired cautiously from the living room.

"Hm? It's a lovely day. Why don't you take the rest of it off?" Wulf suggested. He wasn't going to be good company right now; his eyes were closing of their own accord. "As for me, I'm going to hug that mattress," he continued before his housecarl could ask anything else and proceeded to do just that.

 

Argis caught himself gaping at the man who had fallen into bed without bothering to take off his clothes first, rolled over once to get himself under the covers before he sighed happily. Apparently his Thane had not enjoyed his court session.

Well, this had been...over quickly.

As he was excused for what was left of the day, Argis decided to follow through with his original plan and pay the training grounds a visit. On his way out he stepped over his Thane's discarded coat, sniffed at the offending garment and quickly left his home before he could pick it up. He wasn't going to clean up after a slob. Argis was a tidy person, he led an orderly life and he could already tell that his Thane did not fit in.

It bothered the Nord, the loss of his freedom that he had grown so accustomed to.

He distracted himself by a brief stroll through the city during which he fed his cat, though Pounce did not show herself today and purchased a collection of sweets for Lars. He had promised to, after all. Argis found his friends asleep in a corner of the Shed. He decided against waking them and only placed the box next to them. Turning to leave he was stopped by Halof's voice.

"How did it go?" the veteran shouted, hastily appearing from one of the back rooms with a dropping mop.

Argis did not have to enquire to know what he meant. "Good," he replied gruffly, though he could not stop the corner of his mouth from twitching upwards. "Got the day off. Thought I'd give my practice sword a few swings."

Halof laughed out loud "Ian's men just came back and Brigge's company's about to leave; good luck finding somebody sober enough."

Argis just grinned at the landlord. They both knew he'd simply order the soldiers to fight him, something most of them were less than enthusiastic about. Argis would allow them to refuse the day one of his men got the better of him. It was a fair and a motivating objective that nobody had even come close to achieving.

The housecarl spent the next few hours on the training grounds. Only once the sun set behind the mountains that surrounded Markarth and the light grew too weak for sparring did he call it a day and put away his armour and weapons. Argis left the small group of soldiers that had not yet disappeared into the barracks with words of encouragement, clapping some of them on the back. He liked to make sure that there was no bad blood between him and the men he had beaten, but despite all their grumbling the soldiers were glad to receive training and advice from the best warrior of the Reach.

Content, Argis made his way back to Vlindrel Hall, stretching and shaking out his muscles to prevent them from aching on the next day. There, the Nord paused before entering his home, taking a few seconds to compose himself, to recall his duty.

It was true what he had told Halof, namely that his Thane and he had along well. But one evening spent drinking and talking was hardly enough to predict the future on. And in spite of the housecarl's vows to protect his Thane he took neither joy nor pride in serving the man. It was a job, nothing more, though Argis had every intention of doing it well. His Thane and Argis were still strangers.

There was precious little respect between them and no trust at all, and how could there be? But...they could work on that. Get to know each other better. Yesterday had been fine. Argis told himself that today would be too. He wasn't fully convinced things weren't going to go downhill as soon as he entered the Hall, but that was bad experience catching up with him. Of another time, another man.

Wulfryk looked up from the maps he was studying when he heard the door open and the heavy tread of his housecarl returning. "Evening, Argis," he greeted the man, noticing the discomfort of the other Nord straight away.

Argis inclined his head and courteously replied "Good evening, my Thane." He chose to be formal, not sure where they stood today.

He usually spent his evenings cooking his meal for the next day and mending clothes and armour but if there was nothing to be done, he turned in early, for a soldier's day began with the first rays of daylight. Now though the housecarl had his Thane to think of, he couldn't just ignore the man and withdraw into his own room, could he? Argis wasn't sure he wanted company today, he had gotten used to the peace of solitary life.

His Thane had other plans "Why don't you join me?" Wulf asked, leaning away from the table he was seated at, balancing his chair unsteadily on its hind legs.

At least now the decision wasn't his to make anymore, Argis thought and replied "As you wish, my Thane."

He leaned his shield against the wall and walked over to the other man who had once more turned his attention to the maps, but when Argis stood next to him he looked up in surprise. "I didn't mean straightaway," Wulfryk said softly, giving his housecarl a friendly smile and continued "I'm sure you want to wash and change clothes, right?"

His guess was dead-on and Argis returned the smile tentatively. "Yeah, thanks."

When Wulf just grinned and waved him away, the housecarl felt the tension leave him gradually. It seemed his Thane had not suffered a radical change of personality overnight. Argis almost chuckled at the silly idea, and shook his head, uncertain about what had him worried mere moments ago.

He pulled his shirt off as he walked towards the bathroom, unaware of the fact that his Thane's eyes suddenly snapped up and the scrutiny of the other man's gaze.

Wulf was almost disappointed when Argis returned fully clothed, although his housecarl's flannel tunic was obviously a favourite, as it was worn threadbare. Despite his scars and damaged eye the guy was certainly easy on the eyes and there was no harm in looking.

Argis took the seat that his Thane kicked from under the Table and just managed to catch the open bottle that slid towards him.

"I'm afraid I ate the leftovers, but there's still plenty of mead left," Wulfryk joked, but the words had a different effect on the housecarl whose mien immediately changed to one of guilt and mortification.

By the Gods, it shouldn't be Argis' Thane eating scraps. The very thought was...outrageous. Now Argis chided himself for his stupidity. He had forgotten about his Thane when he had made dinner.

"My Thane, I am sorry," he began, conscious that there really was no justification for his error.

"Huh?" Wulf looked up in confusion. "What for? It's was delicious, though now I wish I haven't been stuffing myself with pastries all day long."

His obvious puzzlement made Argis stare at him in disbelief. "You haven't been Thane for very long, have you," he asked haltingly, amazed at how, well, _normal_ his Thane was.

Wulfryk's brows drew together, his expression darkening. "Actually, I – ," he began but never finished the sentence.

Their conversation came to an awkward stop that had Argis twirling the bottle of mead in his hands and his Thane staring intently at the map spread before them.

He had what? The housecarl couldn't help but wonder what had happened to cause this change in the mood, but when Wulfryk did not speak up again, Argis knew that it was up to him to break the ice. He knew he had overstepped a border and that he shouldn't have asked that last question, only it went against every experience he'd had that having a Thane did not mean having to put up with a complete and utter arsehole. The feeling was one of...surprise, but also immense relief.

Now that they weren't talking anymore, Argis dearly wished to take back his last words.

"So… ," he began instead, unsure whether he was entitled to the information he was about to ask "What did Jarl Igmund want? You have been at court for a long time."

Argis's Thane breathed out audibly and nodded, his bleak humour disappearing as quickly as it had come. He quite obviously welcomed the change of subject, though it also made him grimace, as if the memory of the meeting left a bad taste in his mouth.

Wulfryk decided to wash it down with some mead and stated dryly "He wanted to talk. And to introduce me to all the ‘people of importance’."

Argis winced in sympathy, thankful that his Thane had not insisted that he accompanied him.

"The Jarl also wants us to find and kill one band of the Renounced," Wulf said with a heavy sigh.

"Forsworn," Argis cut him short and quickly explained "They are the natives of the Reach who have declared war upon the Nords of Skyrim."

"Yeah, I know," Wulfryk drawled "I've been attacked by a bunch of small people in furry hats who dressed up as deer." His grin turned outright cocky when Argis guffawed at him and carried on "I didn't have any trouble sorting them out, but the Jarl and another high ranking commander –"

"Brigge," Arigs threw in and received an annoyed glare from having interrupted his Thane again.

"He seemed worried because they have some Ravenwitch with them," Wulfryk continued unfazed.

"Hagraven."

"That's what I said."

Argis opened his mouth to correct him, thought better of it and took a big gulp of mead instead. He did not miss the smirk that crossed his Thane's face.

"Got you." Wulf sounded smug when he proclaimed that "Now we're even."

"Anyway, we're supposed to clear out their camp and the Jarl has even lent me his maps, but all I could deduct from them is that this country is all but impassable."

Argis chuckled at his Thane's frustration and calmly enquired "Where is that camp?"

Wulfryk stabbed a small dot on the map and answered "Near someplace called ‘Reachwind Eyrie’." He looked up to see his housecarl scowl and asked "Is that bad?"

Argis had to tear his eyed away from the map and the tiny mark there and replied "Those ruins have been abandoned for years. If the Forsworn have moved to reclaim that country, then they're planning something and that's never good."

"Ruins?" Wulf sounded curious rather than worried.

"Yes. The Eyrie is, or rather was, a Dwemer tower that stands on the road between Markarth and Durshnikh Yal, an Orc stronghold on the border to High Rock."

"Sounds exciting," Argis' Thane stated, clearly impressed by his housecarl's knowledge of the country and quickly followed it up by "I didn't know High Rock was this close."

"Yeah," Argis mutter verged on grim.

Wulf noticed his aversion and asked "You don't like the Breton's country?"

The housecarl shrugged. He didn't dislike the country per se, but he couldn’t say the same of its inhabitants. "Them damned forsworn sons of goats crawled out from there and now they won't go back and it's up to us to make them."

Wulfryk laughed, but did not push the matter. "How do we get there?"

Argis carefully considered before replying; it had been some time since he had ventured in that direction. He relied on his memory rather than a drawing on a piece of leather, as travelling across the Reach was hazardous and the dangers of the mountains and gorges that lined the land could not be made out by simply looking at it. But Argis knew them and when he leaned over the map to show his Thane the safest and quickest route, the other man did the same.

Wulf snorted when they put their heads together and Argis' blond mane got in his face, tickling his nose.

"Sorry," the housecarl grunted and retrieved a leather band to tie his hair together, never stopping his instruction.

They spent the next hour planning their route, Wulf listening attentively to Argis' warnings and suggestions, knowing that it would be foolish to ignore them. This was the other Nord's home, not his.

They had covered most points when Argis realized that an important piece of information was missing. "When are we going?" he asked.

"We are supposed to leave tomorrow."

Argis paused and warily said "Tomorrow is Fredas."

Something in his voice made his Thane look up.

A few seconds passed before Argis quietly explained "We are planning a major assault. I should be there."

It did not mean that he wanted to abandon Wulfryk, but given the choice, he'd accompany his regiment without a second thought. A choice that he did not have as housecarl.

"I know." Argis was not sure what his Thane meant until the man resumed "I have asked the Jarl that we postpone this attack, but he was of the opinion that the offensive they are planning would be a great distraction."

His Thane had actually argued for Argis with the Jarl? That was...unexpected. And it made the housecarl much more willing to join him on this other mission. But he had to know one more thing. "Do you know who has command now?"

"A guy named Rolfrik."

"Rolf's a good man." When sober. But Argis trusted his second-in-command not to touch any drink when in the field. He and Lars might bicker like a married couple, but there was nobody Argis would rather have at his back than the pair of veterans.

"Alright." If the Jarl gave an order, he had to follow whether he liked it or not. "How many men are we taking with us? How big is that camp anyway?"

Wulf raised his eyebrows and quietly but without much joy he chortled "So far...it's you and me."

He- he couldn't be serious. Argis felt his stomach flip. Two of them against an entire camp?

"Are you fucking crazy!?" he barked at the man who was his superior. The words were out of his mouth before Argis had a chance to reconsider.

Next to him Wulfryk bristled at the sudden attack and retorted heatedly. "I've spent every last septim I had on this Hall! So unless you can pull a bunch of mercenaries from under your bed I don't see any other choice."

"Soldiers."

"What?" Wulf no longer sounded angry, just confused.

"Not mercenaries, my Thane. But I can get you as many soldiers as you need." If wouldn't be easy with so many gone, but he would find a way. There were always men willing to follow Argos' call to arms.

He felt his heartbeat slow down, felt himself become calm when he heard that his Thane was willing to take more men with them, just without the means to. He had been desperate, not out of his mind.

Wulf knew that he was staring at his housecarl and for once not because of the Nord's rugged good looks.

He had been Thane in Whiterun for quite a while, but though the guards had treated him with respect, none of them would have lifted a finger in such a situation. But one word from Argis and they had an army at their disposal? That was… useful, to say at least though it made him curious: just who was this guy who had been appointed as his housecarl? He'd have to find out. Not today though. It was growing late and by the looks of it they would have an early start tomorrow.

Wulfryk shook his head to get his thoughts sorted. "Twenty to thirty men," he said as an answer to Argis' earlier question. "Now what do we do about those soldiers?"

"I'll take care of it tomorrow morning, my Thane," the housecarl replied and rose, his Thane following suit.

They bid each other goodnight and Argis was already in his room and running over the list of things he would need to pack, when a loud bellow had him running to his Thane's room.

"ARGIS!"

The warrior found his Thane in the doorway, a lamp in one hand, the other pointing at something in the middle of the room "What the hell is this?!" Wulfryk spluttered.

Argis looked from his finger to the object he was pointing at. "This, my Thane, is a bed. Yours to be precise. You've been sleeping in it earlier."

"Sleeping, yes," Wulf grit his teeth. "I haven't _looked_ at it up till now." Inwardly he was fuming. "It's bloody hideous!"

"Yes, my Thane." Argis couldn't agree more. That reminded him of something important. "My Thane, you owe me eight hundred gold."

As a rule Argis could remain professional and composed in any situation, but seeing his Thane's look of mixed shock and despair, he had a hard time not to burst out laughing.

 _Now_ they were even.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18.09.2014: NOT an update, sorry. I did re-upload this story after cleaning up the formatting (ugh, what a mess) and doing a bit of editing.  
> I'm not sure if I'll post anything before October, after the recent writing marathon I did on BtS I need a short break and to look over my notes, to get back into right feeling for writing Argis.
> 
> You all probably know Argis from the game, but you really!! should check this out: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Argis-and-his-master-skyrim-392485821 Just browse aenaluck's gallery, she's an amazing artist.

Argis rose before the sun's first rays lightened the horizon and decided against waking his Thane, dressed quietly and left Vlindrel Hall for the soldiers' barracks. As always he took his sword and shield with him, for leaving them behind felt wrong, as if he had misplaced a part of himself. Carrying his weapons had become a habit and even amongst friends his blade was never out of reach.

Outside, the pre-dawn air carried the first hint of winter, but with luck the weather should hold for a while longer. It seldom snowed in the lowlands this early in Frostfall, but by the month's end the slopes of the lower mountains surrounding Markarth would be covered in snow. Real snowstorms usually happened in the middle of Sun's Dusk and many mountain passes would be closed then with entire valleys cut off, until the snow set and the temperatures dropped so low they froze it solid, thus enabling people to walk on top. Compared to the other holds, winter arrived late in the Reach, but because of the proximity of the mountains it lingered for a long time; in shaded places fields of snow could last until Mid-Year and the high peaks of the Druadachs were always white.

Argis liked the winter. He never had, back when he had lived with his family in Gundar's Heim, but as a soldier the coming of the cold season meant a break from warfare. By the time Morning Star arrived, it would be so cold that nobody would leave their homes voluntarily, not even Nords. The Forsworn would be too busy being miserable and freezing to death in their camps to attempt anything and would bother no one until spring.

The housecarl yawned widely and stretched, wishing he was still in bed. Two days ago he had returned from the wilds and now it was right back in. Well, it couldn't be helped. He should just accept it and get going.

Silfir was high in the sky, the silver moon that was Secunda in the Trader's Tongue. Of Blóðlund, the bloody moon there was only a sliver visible from behind a mountaintop, but his smaller and much brighter brother illuminated the city sufficiently, its light dancing over and reflecting off Markarth's polished stone with enough intensity that Argis did not need to light a torch.

A couple of minutes later he arrived at the home of Ian, another high ranking officer whose company had returned yesterday, just in time for Brigge's to leave and raised the heavy brass knocker to rap on the door. There was a hollow _thump_ that rang loudly in the silence of the night and Argis repeated the action until he heard somebody stir behind the door.

"Who's there?" a female voice asked, thick with sleep and raised with annoyance at being woken up this early. Having gone through the same two days ago, Argis felt for her.

"It's Argis," the housecarl replied without explaining further.

Nothing happened for a short while and then he heard a bolt being slid to the side and the door opened a little. A tall, brunette woman appeared in the crack.

"Ian's asleep," she told him with a glower that did not at all suit her plain, careworn face.

"Then wake him up," was the warrior's curt suggestion.

"He just came back," she protested with a hint of desperation in her voice, "You can't take him away again!"

"I just need his help, Jenna," Argis placated the agitated wife with one hand raised that he ran over his brow. Gods, but he was tired himself. "It's important, and I'm not taking him anywhere."

He saw her give a small nod after some contemplation. "Wait here," she ordered and closed the door in his face.

Ian wasn't exactly pleased to see him either, but he listened to Argis' reasons without interrupting.

"Igmund is sending me out," the warrior explained quickly. "Unless I get more men it's my Thane and me against a camp; and I know Brigge can't spare any. I was hoping you could help me."

"Well, shit," the other man cursed. "You know we just got back and since most of the soldiers have some time off I can't order them to go with you."

"I know." Argis nodded his understanding, but did not relent. "Just help me find some willing to, I don't have much time." He did not have to ask a second time.

Ian disappeared for a moment to kiss his wife goodbye, pulled on a warm coat and boots before stepping outside and closing the doors to his home silently. "Alright," he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with excitement. "Let's go find you some bastards crazy enough to work when they could enjoy their free time."

They walked together and after a while Ian spoke up again. "I'd go with you, you know? Jenna will kill me, but I'm with you if there's nobody else." He sighed, looked away and murmured, almost too low for Argis to hear "Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. Getting married and all."

The housecarl patted his friend on the back and warily asked "But you do love her, right?"

"Well, yeah." The officer did not sound convinced himself. "I do love her," he stated more firmly, then proceeded "I just wish she'd understand why I can't be at home more. I belong out there, Argis, with my men. I can't sit by and do nothing while they are out there, fighting. Dying." He sighed heavily and continued "Jenna wants a family, she thinks I'd take care of a child if we had one, stay at home and be a good father and a husband. I can't do that and she won't listen when I tell her why."

Argis grunted in acknowledgement and chose not to comment. He'd heard stories like this one dozens of times. Only the names changed. Some warriors simply were not made for a quiet life or for retirement. Duty and devotion to their cause, the fight for the Reach, had driven countless families apart. It actually made the housecarl glad that he had no angry spouse to deal with.

'Just his Thane,' a traitorous thought whispered in the back of his mind and made him scowl.

The two men parted soon after, Argis heading for the right building and Ian for the left. They'd make better time if they split up. To the blond warrior's surprise there was a lit brazier in front of the barracks and a dark figure was cowering next to it.

"What are you doing at this time?" Argis asked the soldier. His thin face, pointy chin and watery eyes looked familiar, though he could not recall having seen him recently.

"Watching the sun rise," the man replied without looking his way. His leg was bouncing restlessly and he drummed his fingers on his knee rapidly. "This really is the only time to do it."

"Meining, was it?" the housecarl wanted to know, the memories returning slowly. It had been almost a decade since he had worked closely with Ian's soldiers, after all. "You are a scout." And a damned good one, if he remembered correctly.

"Aye." The fidgeting never stopped and the scout scratched his head, tapped his fingers against his mouth and gulped for air, sounding very much like he was having difficulty breathing or some sort of breakdown.

"You alright?" Argis enquired brusquely. "You look… tense." He was becoming edgy himself, just looking at the soldier.

"I don't like the city much," the other man confessed, rubbing his hands over his face now. "Too many people. Makes me nervous. Don't like being inside them walls, either. There's no way out," he whispered, his anxiety making his voice break.

Poor sod. The coincidence was exactly what Argis needed though. "I'm looking for good men willing to fight for their Thane," he said and offered "We could use a scout."

"You can count me in, then," Meining agreed readily and jumped to his feet. "I saw Dom yesterday; he looked about ready to kill something. His wife threw him out, Halof said it's for good t his time. Maybe he'd like to come too."

"Find him," Argis ordered. "And meet me here again."

"Will do." The scout was up and moving before he had finished, disappearing in the shadows without even the soft scuff of a leather boot against stone.

One volunteer already and he had not even had to make himself unpopular with a great many soldiers. Argis grinned tightly, threw open the doors to guard's quarters with a loud bang and shouted "UP!"

There was a moan and some cursing, a few people stirred while others slept on. Most of the bunks were empty, whoever had a family usually chose to spend time with relatives.

The reaction he got was rather disappointing. "I said UP, you lazy buggers!" the housecarl roared "There's Forsworn to kill!"

"Fuck off, Argis!" a sleepy voice slurred from the dark depths of the barracks.

The blonde warrior walked up to the complaining soldier and stood above him with his arms crossed. He saw the other flinch at his presence, though the soldier kept up his pretence of sleep for a while longer. Until Argis' kick broke one leg off the rickety bunk and send him sprawling on the floor.

The guard dropped the act instantly, got up in a fluid motion and held up his hands. "I'm up, I'm up!" she grumbled and Argis realized that contrary to his previous assumption it was no man. "Don't kick _me_ ," the woman whined, quickly followed by "What's in it for us?"

"Double pay," Argis told her. The gold for this mission came from his own funds, but then he was a wealthy man. "Can't guarantee any loot though. Our target's a small camp close to the Eyrie. What's your name, soldier?"

"Pike sir," she called out and gave a grin that missed a front tooth.

"Do you know anybody willing to join us?"

"Sure do, sir," she replied and roused one of her comrades. "Ya hear that, Digs? Argis needs some Forsworn put in the ground. Sounds like work that's right up your alley."

It did not take any more prompting to make the soldier get up. He looked old and his weathered face was heavily wrinkled and none of those lines came from smiling, of that Argis was sure. Nonetheless, he raised his brows. He had come across a lot of strange nicknames, but this one was new. "Digs?" he repeated. "How did you get that name?"

" 'Lend who Digs Graves' is too long when you need to shout it," the man replied with a rasp and a strange emptiness in his voice and eyes. "Twice I've been the only one to come back from cleaning out Forsworn camps. I'm no coward, mind you," he assured the housecarl. "Got the scars to prove it. Name's 'cause I buried all my friends – and my family before that." He paused before asking "You want to kill the goatspawn?" His hair and beard might have gone grey, but the way he gripped his axe and his mirthless smile left no doubt that he was more than ready for bloodshed. "You got the right man."

"Good." That was exactly whom Argis needed. He heard somebody call his name and motioned for the two soldiers to follow him out of the building where Meining was already back and wringing his hands.

"I got bad an' good news," the scout announced as soon as they came closer. "Dom's so drunk, he ain't goin' nowhere, but I found us somebody else."

"Who?" Argis asked, because he did not see anybody else.

"It's been a while." The words made the housecarl turn sharply and face the shadowed alleyway. Two figures detached themselves from the darkness. A stout warrior with a short, russet beard the colour of dried blood, close cropped hair and a Bihänder slung across his shoulder and his slightly taller, brown haired companion whose only visible weapons were a pair of matching fighting knives.

They were Gerimund and Iver, two veterans who had been a couple for as long as Argis had known them. And that was quite a time considering they had trained him back when he had not been competing for the position of a húskarl yet. Afterwards their dealings had been too few and too far apart. That they would join him now was a most pleasant surprise.

"Too damn long!" Argis agreed and allowed himself to be drawn into a rough hug that involved a lot back-pounding.

"Aye!" Gerimund affirmed.

Iver joined the talk, stating "We wouldn't want to pass up a chance to meet the Thane," with feigned nonchalance and a wink. He too clapped his old friend on the shoulder. "You've looked better," the remarked with a twist to his lips that was not amusement.

Argis shrugged. "I've looked worse," he countered.

"True."

Everything that might have come after this was cut short when Ian arrived with two more warriors in tow. "Sorry to disturb this reunion," he called out, not sounding apologetic at all and brusquely introduced the newcomers. "This are Kjald and Theryn." He pointed at each soldier in turn. "They're brothers and have been with me through hell and back."

Argis greeted them with a nod. Both men were clad in the typical attire of the city guard, though they did not look alike at all; Jorri was short for a Nord and had an impressive beard but no hair on top of his head. Theryn might have been good looking once upon a time, but now he sported a badly broken nose and burn scars across the left side of his face and neck.

They were nine now in total and with the element of surprise they could take on a number of enemies two to three times their size. Especially if their adversaries were as reckless and badly trained as most of the Reachmen usually were. The greatest danger was that hagraven, the housecarl knew.

Ian might not be private to this piece of information, yet he lingered and finally he asked the blond warrior in a serious voice "Do you still need me?"

"Thanks, Ian, but we should have no trouble clearing out that camp." Argis had a group of veterans on his side. Capable soldiers with years of experience. They would be fine. "You should enjoy being with your wife while you can," he told his friend. "Work on getting that child she wants."

"If it works this time, I'll name it after you!" Ian shot back and guffawed with laughter when Argis raised his hand in a very rude gesture. He turned to leave, but not before biding them "Good luck!"

"You too," Iver shouted after the retreating officer and everyone, even Meining, joined in the snickering.

"Right," Gerimund interrupted the merriment "Argis, why don't you tell us what's awaiting us?"

The laughter stopped immediately and all eyes turned on the Nord in their middle. "We're going to the old tower at Reachwind Eyrie," the warrior began. "After discussing the matter with Thane Wulfryk we have decided that it would be best to cover the distance as quickly as possible and then take a day to assess the situation, rest if necessary and come up with a plan for the attack. It's too early to settle on any tactics just yet," he admitted. "As to our target: it's a small to middle sized camp, warriors only and probably badly equipped. They have a hagraven with them, so don't expect this to be a walk in the park," Argis warned his listeners.

None of the soldiers flinched at the news, but there was a look of dismay on the faces of some and somebody – probably Pike – spat at the ground. Digs just kept stroking his axe, like he couldn't wait to bathe it in Forsworn blood.

"These Forsworn have moved in almost without us noticing which makes me believe they are escorting the hagraven," the housecarl continued "Probably to one of their main encampments in the east, maybe even the one Brigge wants to cleat out. They will protect her. They will die. And I will hand out two hundred Septims extra to the one who brings me the witches head." He looked around at the grim but determined faces. "Any more questions?"

"I'm all ready," the scout threw in right after the housecarl had finished talking "So is there anything else you need done?"

"See Cedran about some mules and the quartermaster; we'll need supplies for ten days, tops," Argis ordered after some though. It was one less thing he would have to worry about.  

"Now, the rest of you, get your shit together. We meet at the gates two hours past sunup."

Argis did not wait for them to agree, but he was nonetheless pleased to hear a chorus of 'Ayes' behind his back. He had turned away already, heading back for his home. His Thane needed to be woken and informed of the progress his housecarl had made and there was still the important matter of breakfast. As if in answer to his thoughts, Argis felt his stomach rumble.

He looked up. Without him noticing it, the sky had turned from a deep, inky black into a dull gray. A dense blanket of clouds covered the sky and would probably hide the sun from view, but dawn was at hand. The bakeries were open by now and Argis stepped into a small shop where he purchased several white buns, fresh from the oven. By the time he was standing in front of the doors of his home and searching for the key, the horizon was bathed in a warm, golden light.

The interior of Vlindrel Hall was gloomy by comparison and the first thing Argis did was light a fire in the hearth. It was crackling merrily within a few minutes and he was rummaging around in the pantry. Any food that would spoil he'd take with him. There wasn't much, only what he had bought before his Thane's arrival. Everything else would last. Argis' gaze fell on the basket with eggs. They had eaten scrambled eggs yesterday morning, but he did not want them to go bad in their absence. It would take weeks to get the smell out of his house.

Omelette it was, then. He quickly peeled and cut some potatoes into small squares, threw them in a pot full of boiling water and hacked up an onion for roasting.

Cooking always reminded him of his mother. Argis had used to help her out in the kitchens; his father had enough helpers with his two older brothers and his sister. Ivanna though could always use the aid, if only because she could trust him to keep away his younger siblings from the red hot coals of the oven while she was otherwise occupied.

That made Argis think about his Thane and he felt worry gnaw at his insides. The man was his responsibility now. In a few days he would know what kind of a warrior Wulfryk was. What kind of a leader. Whether they fought well together and whether the guy understood tactics or even possessed a shred of common sense. He seemed capable for sure, but adventurers were often loners. It was not his skill with a sword that the housecarl questioned – though he had to prove himself in that regard as well – but his ability and willingness to work as a team.

Argis guessed he should wake his Thane up. The doors to the bedroom were open and for some reason that made him uncomfortable. He was reluctant to enter somebody else's private space, especially since that somebody was asleep, knowing that it would set off some of his own defences if their positions were reversed. So, he knocked on the door.

Nothing happened. From the doorway Argis could see that Wulfryk was fast asleep with his head partially buried under his pillow. Apparently nobody had ever explained to him how to use one. He didn't so much as stir when the housecarl called out "My Thane!"

The warrior entered warily, his tread light and approached the bed. Why he was being silent when he actually wanted to wake the guy up he could not tell. It seemed ridiculous and he let out an annoyed huff, bent down and shook the sleeping man's shoulder. He was not being deliberately rough but neither was it gentle and he did not miss that Wulf's hand went for his knife even before his eyes were fully open. Argis jerked his hand back; he did not fancy being stabbed in the least, but in a way the reaction was reassuring, convincing him that he was indeed dealing with a seasoned fighter.

"It's morning, Thane," Argis greeted him politely when Wulfryk's eyes focused on the blond man standing above him.

"Uh-huh," was all the response the housecarl received, along with an unhappy groan and a rather filthy glare.

Pretending he did not notice the last he turned around and marched back into the kitchens where the potatoes were just about done and needed to be taken out of the water before they fell to pieces. The onion was sizzling in the pan while Argis whipped the eggs and poured the batter in too, along with the potatoes and pieces of ham. He added finely chopped chives and a slice of spicy cheese to each omelette. He had four in total and along with the bread and some butter they would make for a hearty meal. _Now, this was the proper way to start a day._

Speaking of, where was his Thane? A good quarter of an hour had passed and he had not shown up. Argis paused to listen, but there was no sound coming from the bedroom. He sighed, frustrated that his food would cool now and got up again.

Wulfryk was asleep, that's where he was.

He had managed to turn around though and the covers had fallen away to reveal his bare back. Argis ground his teeth. He could see the scar high on Wulf's right shoulder. From their nightly run-in he knew that it had a twin on the front. Argis recognized an arrow wound when he saw it. It wasn't the only injury his Thane had sustained, although surviving those wasn't going to help him now.

Not only was Argis' Thane a slob, but a lazy one at that. Fuckin' fabulous. If any of his soldiers showed such lack of discipline, he'd have them working double shifts and without any food, but that was not something he could do to his superior, although he was tempted to.

"My Thane, it's –," Argis began.

"Morning, I know," a rough voice interrupted him, though Wulfryk did not bother to raise his head. "You know what else? I detest mornings. I'm sure the only reason the Gods invented such a thing as a 'morning' was to torture me," he complained. "And to keep the afternoon and night from bumping into each other," Wulf added after a short pause.

Suddenly though he raised his head, alert as he had not been before, inhaled deeply and grinned. "Is that breakfast I smell?"

All happy and amiable now that there was food ready.

Argis raised a hand to point a finger in his face. "You have two minutes and then I'm eating your portion." He turned on his heel and walked back to the dining table.

Wulf made it in approximately twenty seconds, give or take a few. They did not talk through the first half of their meal, the only sounds the clink of the cutlery and Wulf's yawns.

"Did you pack?" Argis enquired at last to put an end to the silence and because he half feared the answer. It made him downright forget the proper form of addressing his Thane.

The other man nodded though, finished chewing and said "There's something I wanted to ask you: Should I take a pot with me and a pan – those sorts of things? It's pointless to lag around two of everything."

It _was_ a good idea to share. Argis shook his head. "Nah. I've got it covered. Take only what you need, it's going to be a long walk."

"If you say so, Sunshine." Wulf gifted his housecarl with one of his lopsided grins to take the sting out of the words. "What about a tent?" he wanted to know next.

The oiled leather was heavy, as were the hooks and ropes that were necessary to pitch it. Those were some forty pounds that Wulf would be happy to leave behind, if possible. "I got one, but with a big guy like you it'll be very comfy," he teased and it did not escape his notice how his fellow Nord grew tense at the words. "So I thought I'd leave that behind as well," he carried on, slightly confused and poked at his food. "Unless you mind sharing."

"I do." The answer was curt and the sheer honesty of it stung more than it should.

Apparently, Argis did not want him around. Talos' balls, but Lydia had been easier to win over. And decidedly more jubilant with her position as housecarl.

"Okaaay." Wulf almost winced with how defensive he sounded, but then he had not expected that Mister-it's-an-honour-to-serve-you-my-Thane considered him to be a burden, one that he had no intention of putting up with, or carrying, as that pretty housecarly phrase went.

Especially since the last two days had let him believe that he was on his way to befriend the somewhat surly warrior.

The clank of a fork being put down made him look up. Argis ran a hand over his eyes, rested his chin in his hand and finally said "Look, I didn't mean it like that." It sounded somewhat like an apology and Wulf was usually willing to listen to those. I am –," the blond Nord broke off and corrected himself "I was a commander here and as such I don't get chummy with my soldiers. I need them to do what I say when I say it. I'm not friends with most of them. We don't get _close_." He sighed heavily. "And it's been a while since I had to work with somebody who was not under my command."

"Ummm..." Wulf wasn't exactly sure what Argis had attempted to tell him, except for the fact that his housecarl preferred to be and work on his own. It brought them no closer to finding any solution. "So… ," he prompted, one eyebrow raised. "Tent?"

"I got one," Argis muttered, staring off into the fire of the hearth. "Big enough for two." He sounded hoarse, like it was some great confession.

A subtle shift in his housecarl's demeanour told Wulf that the topic was closed now. He did not bring it up again, but he wondered why his...acquaintance...looked like he had developed a bad case of toothache all of a sudden. A heartbeat passed and Argis' expression became flat and unreadable once more. It bothered Wulf, because that's something he was very good at as a rule: reading people. He couldn't tell much about Argis though, except when he was annoyed – with him - but otherwise the warrior was impassive and unresponsive; his face vacant of the emotions that usually ghosted over the features of others. Professional. Indifferent, almost.

Only, he wasn't. He had not been yesterday, or the day before. Without his heightened sense of smell that came from carrying the beastblood and careful study of the man's body language, Wulf wouldn't have picked up on his housecarl's moods. He had been slightly nervous at their meeting, relaxed afterwards and wearily apprehensive on the day after. But now the mask was firmly in place and there was no telling what the man behind it thought or felt.

Stewing over it wasn't going to help. Wulf raised his fork and pointed at Argis' neglected omelette and asked sweetly "Do you plan on eating that?"

"Yes." It came out in a low rumble. "Keep your hands off."

A warning, if Wulf had ever heard one; and he was only left to wonder whether Argis meant the food or their sleeping arrangements.

He knew about facades. Probably better than most. It would be a challenge to disassemble this one, to get behind the carefully erected barrier. It would be something to occupy him, to pass the time with, even if their relationship never evolved to the point of friendship.

Which would be a pity. Up to now he had genuinely liked his housecarl. He still did. Argis was struggling with something and for once he did not pry.

They finished their meal without any more talking, put the dishes in water and then each man left for his room. To dress, though it really was more to comfortably make up their hair. Despite the recent tension, Wulf had to chuckle at the thought. They were Nords, indeed. Since he himself lacked his countrymen's prejudices against magic and other races he had to make up for it with something, Wulf thought while applying his white war-paint.

He liked to braid his hair at the temples and join the two strands at the back of his head, Argis had two straight braids on either side of his face, the rest of his blonde mane he pulled back and secured it with a thin band of leather.

That after two days he knew his housecarl's favourite hairstyle was disconcerting at last and it told him that he had spent too much time staring at the guy, though he had tried to keep his ogling as covert as possible. Not because he was afraid to be discovered, but because he was not sure of the reaction he would get.

Judging by Argis' aversion to so much as share a tent it wouldn't be good, though truth be told he did not know much about his housecarl at all. Only that he had not been born in Markarth but had spent his whole life in the Reach, that he had served in the army under Ulfric Stormcloak where he had distinguished himself and earned the honorary addition 'The Bulwark'. He was four and thirty, not quite five years older than Wulfryk and had been a housecarl for six years.

He was drop-dead gorgeous, exactly meeting Wulf's taste in lovers, scars and damaged eye notwithstanding.

He also favoured men.

Or at least he had had a relationship with a guy that he broke up with or something, Halof, the innkeep had mentioned it but Wulf hadn't been really listening any more at that point.

With a start he realized that he was dawdling, fantasizing about the man who was at the other end of the corridor.

"Argis?" he called out, but then decided to just walk over, getting his first glimpse of Argis' room, which was simply furnished with no decorations. It was also meticulously neat to the point where it did not actually look lived in.

"What!?" came the housecarl's curt answer.

He was in the middle of fastening a cuirass, the breastplate of which was made of steel with fur to soften the edges and a lower part to protest his gut and thighs that was leather. There was also a heavy belt of plated mail for additional protection to the abdomen lying on the bed.

"You've got a strap twisted," Wulf said and stepped closer to the slightly taller warrior, his hands going to the leather that rubbed against the other man's neck, who could very well have adjusted it himself, but the opportunity suited the dark haired Nord just fine.

He noticed the way the other man went rigid at their proximity, it would have been hard not to. It must have taken much self-control of him not to push his Thane away. And he still wasn't sure whether it was personal or just the invasion of his space in general that set Argis off.

"There, that's better," Wulf stated with feigned cheerfulness and patted the blond warrior's shoulder when he righted the strap, receiving a grunt in answer. They were close, closer than necessary and Wulfryk used it to smile up at the other man briefly, then retreated as if nothing had happened. He did not think that Argis had twitched a single muscle the entire time, standing stiffly and almost at guard. His breathing was somewhat heavy, but there were no other tells.

Except for the way his gaze lingered. He did not tear it away quite quickly enough and Wulf thought he had his answer.

There was something burning in his housecarl's amber eye. Interest, maybe?

He had an amazing eye colour, Wulf realized, one he had only ever seen in the great maned cats that prowled Elsweyr's dry savannahs. He could get lost in it, though he did not allow himself to, leaning against a cupboard instead.

"Do I need armour straight away?" Wulfryk asked, back to talking business.

Argis snapped back astonishingly fast and he was not the slightest bit flustered when he explained "We will be in well patrolled country for the first two days, but after that I wouldn't risk going without it, Thane." They both knew that there was no armour on Nirn that would save them if an archer or a mage got lucky. It was a risk one learned to live with.

But..."I'm good at avoiding being stabbed by pointy things," Wulf declared haughtily.

"Yeah?" Argis muttered, going back to fastening his armour and, by all appearances, ignoring his Thane. Not _that_ good, judging by his scars. 

"Yeah." Wulf didn't like being ignored much. "Unless I'm having sex," he threw in saucily and ambled back into his own, not waiting to see the look on his housecarl's face, though he was sure it was delicious.

He could feel the warrior's eyes drilling into his back. It was silent enough in the other room that he knew Argis had foregone dressing in favour of just staring at him.

Then, once he was out of sight and after a long moment of nothing there was a soft snort, followed by quiet laughter. It was low enough that Argis probably believed that his Thane couldn't hear him, but Wulfryk's senses weren't exactly human in this regard and he did.

'He should laugh more,' the Nord thought, because it was quite a lovely sound. Deep and gravelly, but mostly just happy, without any of the reserve from before.

Wulf wished to see Argis like this when he was around the other man. 'One day,' he swore, but in the meantime he deemed it safe to assume he had just scored a point in their small, implicit game and could not keep a silly grin from appearing on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more Argis/Wulf interaction as the two get to know each other better. It'll take some time though.
> 
> Happy New Year!!  
> [I can't believe it's been that long!]


	13. Chapter 13

Dressed and ready to go, Wulf slung his pack over one shoulder and, leaving his bed the exact shape of messy that he liked, left his room. He arrived in the hall just as somebody knocked on the front door and pulled it open - to the surprise of the caller.

"Yes?"

The courier had apparently expected somebody else judging by his startled expression, but he quickly recovered. "I have a delivery for Argis, does he still live here?"

"Sure," Wulf answered with a smile, glad that it did not concern him. He'd been edgy after his escape from Whiterun, but as far as he could tell he had covered his tracks well enough that he had not been followed. The only thing left to do now that he was no longer getting by with the one or other odd job, was to hope that nobody would make the connection between the sudden disappearance of one Thane and the astonishingly fast rise of another.

"I'll get him."

Wulf saw the courier nod with gratitude, obviously happy that he would not have to search the city for one man and went back inside. His housecarl looked up from fastening his belt and the various weapons attached to it when his Thane poked his head through his door for the second time.

"There's a delivery for you," Wulf announced and watched Argis' brows furrow before he nodded his thanks and brushed by him.

 

xxxx

 

Argis did not expect to receive a package, but maybe his Ma was worried he was starving himself and had sent him her famous honey and oat cookies, or perhaps his Da or one of his siblings had a request, something they needed from the city. While unanticipated, it was hardly unusual for him to receive mail.

The housecarl recognized the courier from former visits. The man looked nervous, tapping his foot and staring down the cliff as if he was afraid it was going to swallow him. The heights in Markarth could be overwhelming if one was not used to them. Argis cleared his throat so as not to startle him and received a packet wrapped in ordinary brown oiled leather to protect the contents from rain.

"Do you get anything?" he asked the Nord who had made the delivery.

"No. It's all paid for," the other man answered but grinned happily when the housecarl pressed a coin into his hand nonetheless and with a bow he took his leave, no doubt to spend the money at the Silver-Blood Inn. Running after others had to be thirsty work.

Argis put the package down on the long table he and his Thane had eaten breakfast at earlier and sliced open the cords holding it together. Several envelopes spilled out, the paper thick and heavy and he knew whom they were from even before he had opened a single one.

"Anything important?" Argis' Thane called, leaning against the wall of the hall and reminding the housecarl that they needed to get going.

The blond warrior sorted through the correspondence briefly and shook his head. "Just letters. From an old friend."

"Are we going?" Wulfryk asked impatiently. "If we run late I'm blaming you," he added.

"Yeah," Argis grunted in answer and tore his eyes away from the staple of parchment. "Just need to grab my pack."

He did and, slinging a small axe suitable as a backup weapon and for throwing through its ring on his left hip, headed after his yawning Thane into an overcast morning. On the way out Wulfryk managed to stumble over the doorstep and, heart stopping, Argis already saw him tumbling down the long stairway and breaking his neck. That would be awkward to explain to the Jarl. Somehow his Thane caught himself in time and with a drunken stagger just as the housecarl managed to grab his elbow to keep him from falling.

"Handrail technology," Wulfryk stated with an accusingly raised finger. "You crazy Markarth people should really look into it."

Argis let the remark pass and watched his Thane's step closely until they reached the safety of the ground. The housecarl followed, running over the details of their mission in his head until a slurred shout ripped him out of his thoughts and made his head snap up.

"Hey!"

It was Yngvar, bleary-eyed and out after a night of drinking.

"Don't kill off this one!" He slapped his thigh and laughed like it was the best joke in the world.

Argis refrained from bashing the man's nonexistent brains out against the wall of the inn and turned his back on the drunk. Like too many other people the thug was on the payroll of the Silver-Bloods and he wasn't going to start a feud without a damned good reason. Besides, he might have the opportunity to do just that, legitimately and in front of a crowd of spectators, in the yearly spring tournament if Yngvar had the balls to compete against him.

The housecarl noticed the curious sideways look his Thane was giving him.

"What was that about?" the dark-haired warrior asked with a strange, reserved, cheer.

"Nothing," Argis grunted back. He guessed his Thane had a right to know, but if the man was enough of a snoop to make enquiries before having met him, he could damn well figure it out on his own. By asking anybody in the city, for instance. Half of them would be thrilled to share the story, embellished to the point of where Argis had probably bludgeoned Bjorn to death himself and bathed in the man's blood.

They passed through the gates where the guards straightened when they saw the pair and wished them both success. Argis was happy to see that all of their group were present and ready to go. In fact, there was one man extra who did not belong.

"Lars," Argis addressed the redhead who was sitting on his pack, chewing on a piece of bread and dried meat. "What are you doing here?"

"Shirkin' duty," the soldier replied through a full mouth and grinned like it was some joke only he could understand.

The housecarl clapped him on the shoulder in greeting and the other man rose, wrapping up his food and putting it away. Argis wearily asked, "Does Rolf know?"

"Sure, he was tha one ta sign me off." His friend laughed at the housecarl's vexed expression and poked him in the chest. Ya need someone ta watch ya back," Lars stared and shouldered his pack, tightening the straps.

Argis chuckled at his friends' scheming and shook his head, looking around. Gerimund and Iver were talking quietly, the brothers Kjald and Theryn had a mule each, Lend was staring into the distance with his eyes shielded by one hand and Pike kept yawning widely every few seconds.

Meining was riding circles atop a thin horse with cow hocks that looked like it had interbred with a goat at some point. The scout stopped his mare, patted her neck and answered the housecarl's unasked question. "Beauty's all mine."

Next to Argis Wulfryk rubbed his hands together and looked at the warrior beside him with expectation. "So. Where are we going?"

"You are our leader," Argis replied formally, hoping to set an example for his men. Better the soldiers learn early to respect his Thane, or there'd be consequences.

"I am," the dark-haired Nord replied happily. "I just need someone to tell me where I'm supposed to lead us."

Argis stared at the man while Lars was shaking with laughter and Iver snickered behind his hand and leaned closer to his partner to whisper something while the other man nodded.

"Come on, Sunshine," Wulfryk prompted, indifferent to the reactions of varying degrees of shock and amusement around him. "Throw me a bone. I haven't learned that map by heart yet. Salvius' Farm, where's that?"

"Just down the road, my Thane."

Argis' Thane extended his hand, motioning for the warrior to go in front. "Lead the way, oh fearless housecarl."

 

xxxx

 

Wulf knew he had caused a minor stir with his little show, but what had the others thought? That he would stride at the head of their little procession and maybe wave a banner? Even if he had wanted to do that, Wulf might know where he had to go, but not how to get there.

At least he got them to quit staring and move on.

Their scout trotted ahead, shouting back that, "You'll hear me whistlin'".

A grim, elderly soldier raised a hand in farewell at the statement, and in the next minute Wulf watched the rider disappear down the road. He took his place somewhere in the middle of the group of people and was quickly forgotten as everyone around appeared to try their hardest to ignore the Thane in their midst. Wulfryk took the opportunity to observe them and listen to the soldiers talk.

Argis marched in front, but he was cold and distant all throughout the day. The housecarl kept to himself, only engaging in conversation when a question was directly asked of him. Wulf also noticed that he behaved different towards some of the warriors. He seemed most friendly with Lars, though Gerimund and Iver were a close second. Argis was also clearly familiar with Pike and painfully exerted to treat his Thane with the deference befitting Wulfryk's position. It was all the more obvious because of the gaping lack of any foundation to base it on.

A light drizzle began in the afternoon and hoods were pulled up and conversations died down as heads bowed. The only one whose spirits were not dampened in the slightest was Argis' redheaded friend and after a while Wulf found himself walking with the soldier in the rear. Lars was more than pleased by the opportunity to chat, though he had to repeat himself often when Wulf did not understand his dialect, which was more pronounced than most other Reachmen's. When the dark haired warrior said so and suggested he explain some particularly incomprehensible phrase in the Trader's Tongue, the soldier looked at him like he had asked him to take a leap off the cliff.

"Ya should hear Argis speak Málforn," Lars stated. "Even I can't follow that."

He then proceeded to teach Wulf everything the warrior needed to know about the Reach and its inhabitants and especially the fine differences between the Reachmen, the Forsworn and the Reachlfolk that were ignored by the rest of Skyrim, but of critical importance around here.

The Reachfolk were the Reaches inhabitants, while the Reachmen were the natives, originally of Breton descent, thought they had heavily interbred with the Nord settlers and in some cases even with Imperials and Orcs. While it was technically correct that most of the Nords living in Markarth were of mixed blood, it was not wise to say so if one was fond of one's teeth. In Markarth, many of the natives dwelled in the warrens and did the dirtiest jobs, and no self-respecting Nord wanted to associate themselves with them.

The reason was because after the taking of Markarth and succeeding Ulfric's liberation, many of the Reachmen became the Forsworn, a bunch of fanatics also called the Madmen of the Reach who thought the hold wasn't big enough and that the Nords and the Empire had to leave their homeland to its 'true sons and daughters'. They attacked travellers, caravans and Nord settlements and even sometimes entered the city in disguise and assassinated citizens, thus making the Nords' – who, as previously mentioned, were in all instances the Reachfolk and quite often, at least partially Reachmen – lives difficult.

Lars actually managed to say all of that with a straight face and in a tone of absolutely sincerity and by the end of the lecture Wulf's head was spinning. These people were crazy. Wulf should have listened to the old soldier back in Rorikstead when he had cautioned him against going to Markarth. Oh, well. Couldn't be helped now.

When Wulfryk saw an opportunity, he directed the talk to their travelling companions and the man next to him was happy to share all he knew about them.

"You know Argis well?" Wulf asked eventually, because he had noticed Lars had left out the one man he was most interested in. Never mind who Pike's sister was married to.

The redhead laughed like it was a great joke. "Ya could say so," he chuckled. "There's three of us; Rolf shoots 'em, Argis knocks 'em over with his shield and then I stab 'em. We're a team," he announced merrily and with a flippancy that spoke of long years of friendship.

"You've been with him long?"

"Aye," Lars declared proudly. "None longer. Seventeen years ago, I was tha first ta sign up with Markarth's rising hero. Thought maybe some o' tha glory would rub off on me."

"Did it work?" All the answer he needed was in the redhead's smile.

"Sure did. It don't hurt with tha ladies when ya say ya're with tha Bulwark, either. Course, we had a bit o' a rough time couple o' years back, but… ," Lars shrugged. "Guess we was in for a down. Too much glory and fame. Don't tell Argis I said so, alright?"

Wulf smiled and nodded and did not interrupt while Lars counted out all of his housecarl's memorable deeds, the last but not greatest being, "Killed a sabrecat all by his self."

Wulf had seen the claw Argis was wearing against his chest. "That true," he asked the warrior who had been listening in on them talk.

Argis shrugged. He wasn't bragging, but he wasn't denying anything, either.

Meining came back roughly an hour later with a basket full of apples and walnuts that he distributed amongst the soldiers. They had heard the scout's whistles throughout the day, though they had rarely caught sight of him. "The way is clear," Meining announced, reporting half to Argis and half to Wulf who was cracking nuts while Lars peeled the apples that had spots. "Met a patrol bound for the Falls. And I found us a nice place to camp."

Their designated campsite had a brook and a copse of trees to shield them from sight and a dark circle of scorched earth in the middle that indicated they were not the first ones to seek shelter here. Wulf surprised Argis by lending a hand in pitching their tent and chopping some wood for the fire Pike was lighting. Between the ten of them all the work got finished within half an hour and then there was nothing else to do but sit and stir she spoons in their empty bowls.

Wulf cast a look back the way they had come, but Markarth had long ago disappeared behind rolling hills. This was not country the warrior wanted to get lost in; as far as he could see they had not even followed a track up here, yet they were only one day away from the city. Then Argis announced that dinner was ready and Wulf's stomach reminded him that breakfast had been too long a time ago.

 

xxxx

 

Argis dished out the food and ate his portion in silence, trying to enjoy the peace of the evening, but without much success. The mist that had hung low through most of the day had dispersed and they even got to see the sun set in vivid colours of orange and pink. Blind to the sight before him, Argis' thoughts all swirled around the man in their midst.

He had no idea what to do with the guy. Wulfryk appeared to be getting friendly with Lars, of all people. Argis reluctantly pondered whether his friend would need a reminder that the man was a Thane and had to be treated as such, but decided against it. They appeared to be getting along well – better, in fact, than Argis and Wulfryk.

Maybe later Argis could question Lars on what he had found out. Happy with the temporary solution, the housecarl leaned back and watched the stars overhead twinkle into life. Around him, his comrades ate and talked and Iver started a dice game that was soon joined by Lend, Pike and Theryn. The mules were tethered to two small, twisted juniper trees and while Meining's mare was neither hobbled nor tied down, it seemed reluctant to stray far from her rider's tent anyway. Perhaps because the scout was feeding her what apples remained in the basket.

"Do we divide watch between two or three?" Kjald asked, hunkering down beside the housecarl who noticed the other conversations around him dying down as curious heads turned to listen.

"Two," Argis said. "And I'll take the first." Nobody contested his decision. They knew that as a leader he always insisted on facing danger and discomforts first.

"I'll take second."

Argis sat up to see his Thane, who was currently helping himself to seconds, give him a diffident smile.

The housecarl nodded and let the others work out a schedule between them. He approved of his Thane's commitment and silently prayed that the man was up to it. He had had no difficulties keeping up with them today and he moved lightly under his pack like he was used to heavier weights. Argis felt the first spark of grudging respect. He had figured his Thane for a layabout after how difficult it had been to get him out of bed, but he had pitched in as much as the next man when it had come to the few chores that had to be done around the camp. Argis only hoped that the warrior had been worn out by Igmund's court session and that he would not have to pull Wulfryk out of the bedroll by his feet.

In time the soldiers turned in by pairs and a heavy but peaceful hush fell over their camp.

The hours passed slowly without anything happening. Mules and horse were grazing calmly and in the distance an owl hooted. Argis now and then added some wood to the fire to keep it burning, but generally sat with his back to it, staring into the distance. He usually kept watch further away from it – because a back lighted silhouette was an invitation for archers, but they were close enough to Markarth that he did not fear an ambush. Due to the terrain small bands of Forsworn could get close to the capital, but three days in each and every direction were well enough patrolled that it was nigh impossible for the enemy to slip past the soldiers. He himself had seen to that.

Eventually the night grew cold and the housecarl pulled out his white fur cloak and wrapped it around himself. Soft snores were coming from several tents, and he walked around them to stay alert. Argis patted Meining's mare on the nose when she came over to nose at his pockets. Realizing that he had no treats for her the horse eventually went back to grazing and the housecarl continued his round. He almost walked past it, but stopped next to the tent that was his own.

Argis did not know if his Thane had offered to take second watch so they would not have to suffer any more awkwardness whilst pretending to rest or if there was some other reason, but he was grateful for the gesture either way. Too bad it only worked once. He could not stand sentry every night, or he would fall asleep when the time came for them to fight the Forsworn.

In addition it would be a blatant insult to his Thane. Maybe...he should talk to him. It had worked back in Markarth, after all. Shor's bones, if Wulfryk had suffered a whole day with Lars, whose chattiness could wear down even his best friends, without complaint, he could not be a bad guy.

 _Tomorrow_ , Argis decided.

When the moons had wandered a good bit across the sky the housecarl knelt to open the tent flap and shook awake the man sleeping inside. Wulfryk snapped up at the sudden touch, much like he had back in Vlindrel Hall.

"My Thane," Argis said quietly, "It's your turn."

The dark haired Nord groaned and buried his face in the furs before pushing up and climbing out of the tent. He fished out his boots and shook an opportunistic spider out of one before putting them on, stomping his feet against the ground. The warrior also fetched his cloak and drank deeply out of his waterskin.

Argis watched as Wulfryk folded his cloak a couple of times, and laid it atop a low stone before he sat down upon it. He fed a few more twigs to the fire, splaying his fingers to warm them before he blinked up at Argis through his dishevelled hair that he roughly combed into place with his fingers. "Keep me some company, would you?"

"As you wish, my Thane." Argis squatted down beside him on his heels because the ground had become wet with dew.

He had been hit on enough times to know that playfully assessing look he pretended not to notice. Either this was another test or his Thane wanted to get into his pants. Or maybe the guy was just a flirt by nature; he seemed the kind with his overt advances back when they had been home. It was understandable; flirting was something you did for fun, to see if you could talk someone into bedding you.

Wulf was generous with his smiles and there was no denying that he was attractive, even more so when his voice was rough with sleep and had dropped into a pleasant, slow rumble. And he knew it.

Under different circumstances Argis might be interested.

"So," Wulfryk broke the silence before Argis could get too hung up on that flash of sentiment. "Why's it called a hagraven? It's not actually-?"

"Yes," Argis answered with a grimace. "Yes it is."

"Oh. Yuck." Argis' Thane pulled a face. They were both speaking in hushed tones so as not to wake the others or make too much noise. Sound carried in the mountains.

"That about covers it," the blond warrior chuckled quietly. "Ugly as Mauloch's warty ass and smell worse than his farts. You'll know one when you see it. Whatever happens, don't freeze. Keep moving. Hagravens have claws like razors, but they can't get past steel; their magic however will fry you on the spot."

"Don't get myself blown up," Wulf repeated and nodded. "Anything else?" His words were distorted by a lengthy yawn that he covered with his hand.

Argis shook his head. "Bury a sword in them and they die just like everybody else," he advised with a wry twitch of his lips.

When Wulfryk did not immediately answer, the housecarl believed their conversation to be over, but then his Thane suddenly asked, "Where do they come from?"

Argis' knowledge of history hardly outstanding, but he had learned the one or other thing during his training. Understanding your foes was the key to success. "They've always been in the Reach," he began. "Forsworn revere them as holy, because they can turn a man into a Briarheart. Umm, those are powerful mages or warriors and lead the Forsworn. Also, they're not entirely alive."

"All I know is they're not born, they're made. Some ritual which involves Daedra and a human sacrifice and I don't really want to know more about it. Uh...the Briarhearts, that is," Argis clarified, "Not the hagravens. I know that I don't want to know where _they_ come from." He felt the rush of blood to his cheeks as he stumbled over the words, glad for the darkness. Any flush that was visible he could attribute to the heat of the fire.

Wulfryk did not appear to notice. "Apparently ugly is not a deterrent to getting laid," he stated wryly.

"Fuck," Argis barked out a surprised laugh. There was something right off the top of his list of things he did not want to think about before going to sleep.

"Not that I'd know," Wulf added in afterthought and grinned.

Argis snorted and poured some water into a cup, drank it. The only retort that came to his mind was either insulting and though the mood was relaxed he did not want to risk spoiling it by banter giving the wrong impression or a downright invitation into his bedroll. Which was not happening; now or ever.

"What's Málforn?" Wulfryk asked out of the blue.

"Why do you ask?"

Argis' Thane shrugged. "Lars said you spoke it."

"I don't speak Málforn," the housecarl bristled, but when his reaction was only met with an uncomprehending stare, he elaborated, "I grew up not far from Markarth, but the place was so out of the way, you'd think it was on the other side of the Reach. It's a small community. We speak differently there. I didn't think anything of it until I moved to the capital. Truth is, our dialect is almost identical to the Old Tongue."

"So-?"

"Málforn is used by the Forsworn."

Wulfryk shrugged like he did not see where the problem was. "It's not a bad thing to understand what your enemies are saying."

"No," Argis agreed, relieved that this was not an issue with his Thane. He was not from the Reach, but still. "But it's not wise to advertise it, either."

"I can keep a secret or two," the dark haired warrior replied with a conspiratorial wink.

"Ain't much of one, but – thank you."

Wulf yawned in answer and shook his head like he was trying to shake the last traces of sleep. "I'm awake now," he declared.

_Yes, but can you stay that way?_

Argis rose and stretched his legs, feeling the prick of tiny needles in his knees from crouching too long. He was about to turn and disappear into his tent, when he noticed that his Thane only had a shirt on and a sleeveless vest of leather; hardly clothes fit for late autumn. The housecarl draped his mantle over the other man's shoulders.

"Here. It gets cold in the morning hours." And he did not want to be woken in the middle of the night.

Wulfryk ran his fingers through the thick, spotted fur and whistled softly when he recognized what animal it had once belonged to. "Is this the same one that's lost its claws to you?" His finger briefly tangled in the leather cord around Argis' neck, before letting go again.

"No." Argis straightened and put the claw back into his shirt. He had never noticed it had slipped out.

He saw no reason for his Thane's amusement when the other Nord wished him "Sweet dreams."

 

xxxx

 

Wulf looked after the other warrior, and then rested his chin in his hands. He appreciated the gesture. The fur was warmer than anything he had ever worn, too much so. Sitting around with the wind cutting through the cloth of his shirt he was he had to admit it was fresh, but Wulf did not get cold easily.

Lars had said Argis was the best man Wulf could wish to have at his side and Wulf was inclined to believe the soldier, especially since the others appeared to share the opinion.

Maybe he would thaw, given time.

Morning arrived after a long, unexciting night.

Meining and Argis rose first and only a few minutes apart. It would be a good two or three hours before the sun made it over the mountains to the east, but by then Wulf had already watered their animals and was coaxing their fire back to life. The housecarl and scout made the round to wake everybody and after much good-natured cursing, the soldiers were up and made quick work of the tents.

After breakfast they doused the fire and moved on. Wulf spent the first part of the day's march walking in silence, this time because nobody besides himself seemed in a mood for an early-morning talk. He was later joined by Theryn and Pike who turned out to be hilarious companions once they were no longer cowed by Wulf's title.

Theryn's face had been burned by some magic-slinging Forsworn, but despite his disfigurement the soldier was merrier and more of an extrovert than his surly brother. Meining was a bit of an oddball – more inclined to talk to his horse than his fellow soldiers, but he joined them in the evenings, even playing the one or other round of dice.

On the last leg of their journey Wulf also managed to corner Gerimund – without his ever present better half, who he had already chatted with. "Are you married?" he enquired of the reticent warrior.

"For seven years now," Gerimund replied .

"And?" Wulf encouraged. "Happily?"

"Very much so," the other Nord replied, but said no more.

He wasn't one for talking, Wulf had noticed. He gave the warrior his space, not wanting to appear too prying. The Nord was happy he was getting along with the soldiers, and better so by the day.

Argis drew him aside that evening.

"There's some things you need to know about the Forsworn," the housecarl said. "They're not great warriors – no technique, no discipline and no honour, but they're not called the Madmen of the Reach for nothing."

Wulf had been about to saw something clever, but the sincerity in Argis' face stopped him. It was the first time the other man had approached him as directly and he was probably better off listening to what the warrior had to say.

Argis continued, "If they have to throw themselves on your sword to score a hit, they'll do it. They don't give a shit if you turn them to mincemeat if they can off you in return. Expect them to come at you with anything, even two weapons at a time – as I've said, they don't care if they die in the fight, but they'll try to make sure to take you down with them."

Wulf nodded that he understood and Argis carried on.

"Keep your shield up and make sure they're dead before you move on."

"You said they are adept at magic?" Wulf asked when no more words came forth.

"Yeah. And resistant to it. Not all of them are witches, but if you spot somebody, stick close to me if you want to live."

"Right."

Wulf already knew that the man was not one for long speeches, but he was a bit disappointed at the lack of faith in his abilities to keep himself alive.

"Their swords," Argis began before taking another approach, "You got some good armour?"

The housecarl eyed Wulf's patched leathers critically. He had not seen Wulfryk's mail, when he had put it on for the first time a day ago, nor today.

"Very good," Wulf assured him with confidence. Irileth's dagger had not so much as nicked the plates made of Skyforge Steel and it had sliced through boiled leather like cloth. Come to think of it, a new set of leather armour was beginning to look like a necessary investment in the near future. His old one was none the better for the recent abuse it had suffered.

Wulf wasn't planning to repeat the fiasco from Dustman's Cairn that had triggered a series of events that it would take Whiterun a while to recover from.

Argis knew nothing of that, of course. He cast his Thane a sceptical look, but did not argue. "Their swords will break against steel plate, but be on your guard. Remember the teeth?"

Again Wulf nodded and Argis resumed, visibly pleased with his attentiveness.

"They're good for ripping your sword and shield out of your hands. Don't hold on to them too tightly. If you lose your blade or shield, close in as fast as you can and use that knife - you're not carrying it for decoration, I hope."

Wulf snorted, but his housecarl did not let him get a word in edgewise.

"The swords are pointy, but too heavy in the grip. They allow for very fast, but not very powerful attacks and they're not overly sharp. Forsworn make the edge from bones, you see. _If_ you're lucky, you can block a blow with your arm without losing it, but...I don't recommend it."

He grimaced in a way that let Wulf know the blond warrior knew what he was talking about and his left hand went to his right forearm though he could not massage it through his arm guards.

Argis became aware of the subconscious motion and let both arms fall again. "Most Forsworn don't wear armour; just furs. You'd think it a weakness, but it also makes them fast."

It made sense, Wulf guessed. If you did not care if you lived through the fight you might as well die comfortably and not sweat beneath a heap of metal.

"We don't have training weapons or I'd take you for a spar," the housecarl sighed. "Just stick close to me, yeah?"

Like he expected Wulf to do the exact opposite. "You'll never guess it, Sunshine, but I survived three decades without a nanny," Wulfryk snapped, vexed with the constant doubt.

"It ain't just your life that's at stake here, Thane," Argis replied with clear disregard for the matter. "It's my honour."

That was... blunt.

The night crept in and all warriors were moving about with a nervous energy. Wulf retired early, but sleep evaded him. He had rested uneasily throughout the whole journey; next to him Argis was practically humming with tension. There was a root in Wulf's back, he was too hot and the air in the tent was too close. The housecarl grunted unhappily when his Thane tossed and turned and kicked him in the process. Wulfryk found a position that was moderately comfortable for the first few seconds. The root now was digging into his stomach.

Wulf cursed and sat up. "When do we get there?" he asked the man beside him.

Argis lowered the arm that had been lying across his face and Wulf could feel the man's scowl.

"In the afternoon," the housecarl replied. "We cannot stay too long in the area or we'll risk being discovered by lookouts."

Wulf huffed in response and twisted to avoid the bump digging into his ribs. His back hit Arigs' side.

"Would you lie still?" the housecarl snapped gruffly, forgetting the proper way to address his Thane. He sounded a hair's breadth from wanting to knock Wulf unconscious.

"That's easy for you to say," the dark haired warrior whined. "You've got the comfortable side."

"I don't."

"Then let's swap."

"Oh, for Mara's sake!"

Argis sat up as well and they shifted around until Wulf could stretch out in his housecarl's place. The ground had a shallow hollow and the furs beneath him were warm. He buried his face in them and deliberately slowed his breathing and felt the lethargy of sleep take hold of him after a few minutes. Until he heard Argis' quiet, "Son of a-"

"What's wrong?" Wulf murmured, already half asleep.

"There's a bloody root in my back," Argis grunted.

Wulf chuckled until he drifted off.

 

They were lying on a hill, as close to the ground as possible.

"It's the first rule of scouting," Meining had whispered, "If you can see them, always assume that they can see you."

The scout had spotted the Forsworn first and shown them a way to approach and now Argis, Pike, Gerimund, Wulf and Meining were on their stomachs, pointing at the distant camp and trying to estimate their enemy's numbers.

"They got backup," Gerimund muttered grimly.

"Aye." Pike sighed and skidded down the gentle hill on her back with the others following suit. "Looks like thirty men at least."

"Can you get a better look at it?" Argis asked their scout.

The man was shaking his head before the housecarl had finished speaking. "Sorry, Argis, but I bet they got somebody on that cliff." He pointed towards the wall of rock that the encampment was built against. The angle was disadvantageous to their foe, but that would change once they tried to get closer.

"What do we do?" Pike asked.

"Only one thing we can do: we wait for nightfall." Argis briefly checked with Wulf to see if his Thane approved of the decision.

Wulfyk did. Going up against thrice their number was a very bad idea, especially as the Forsworn would know of the attack long before they closed in. They had come here to kill the goatspawn, but Wulf did not want for any of his comrades to lose their lives for nothing. A plan began to form in the back of his mind.

"Do you think they are expecting us?" Gerimund asked on their way back to where the others were hiding.

"Didn't look like it," Argis replied, but contrary to the words his tone indicated that he was not ruling out the option.

Wulf let them go in front and fell back. "Did you see anybody up on the cliff?" he asked their scout.

"No," Meining replied, "But there usually is one. Good view from up there."

"Can you take him out? Quietly," Wulf added.

"Think so. Why?"

Wulf smiled. That was all he needed to know. "I'll tell you later."

They met up with the others to discuss their further course of action and wait for night to come. Wulf grabbed his sword and headed out into the night, to stand beside the ring of soldiers who sat on the ground, without a fire this time.

"I'll go and have a look," he announced to the surprise of all. " _I_ does not include you," Wulf told Argis when the warrior stood up to protest, without looking his way. He never saw the murderous glare directed at him before the housecarl nodded jerkily and disappeared between the trees.

Wulf planned to do more than that, but they needed not know. He told them to stay put, ignoring the worried glances some of them cast after Argis and nodded at Meining who rose as soundlessly as he did anything else. They walked for a while together before the scout slipped away into the darkness. Wulf continued on to the rise they had watched the Forsworn camp from earlier this day and waited, estimating how long it would take Meining to climb the hill.

When enough time had passed, Wulf crept forward. If he could kill the enemy sentry without raising the alarm then they stood a fairly good chance at catching the Forsworn flat-footed. They should be easy for the Nords to overcome then until those who managed to put up a defence were too few in number to withstand.

Killing sleeping men in their beds sounded easier than it usually was; there always happened to be somebody unfortunate to take a piss and one scream was all it would take to wake everybody else. Wulf had a nagging suspicion, confirmed by his comrades that these people would not remain addled with sleep and floundering for long. They were, after all, in enemy territory and on guard.

The warrior only hoped that Meining would indeed get that guard. He hated relying on people he did not know, but there was nothing for it this once and from what he had seen so far, a Khajiiti Nightstalker would be proud of the man. It would work out. Had to, this time.

Wulf heard the sentry long before he spotted the man. The warrior was alternating between pacing the perimeter of the camp and sitting on a rock, legs dangling. If the sentinel atop the cliff had a bow, he would be able to give his friend cover – and he would be able to spot anybody the man below overlooked. Wulf looked up, but he only saw the outline of the hill and the stars above. The night was quiet. He wondered if the two had some means of communication, like Meining's whistles.

He moved forward. The outskirts of the camp gave Wulf some cover; the Forsworn did not want to be all out in the open either. When the other warrior had his back turned and walked in the other direction Wulf dashed forward. He stepped over the low-hanging bone chimes Meining had warned him of, sprinted forward and threw himself over the boulder that from time to time served at the Forsworn's resting place.

It took a while before Wulf heard the soft scuff of the man's leather moccasins against grass. The sentry walked to the other side of the camp and back again and Wulfryk feared that he would never sit down, but after an eternity of patrolling, the Forsworn warrior pulled himself up on the rock's flat surface. He bent down then and plucked a blade of grass and blew into it, the keening cry a perfect imitation of a young long-eared owl.

That about answered Wulf's earlier question. He shot up from his hiding place and clamped a hand over the other man's mouth and slit his throat. The Forsworn fell from his perch, gurgling and clawing at his throat, his death grip raking bloody furrows into his attacker's wrist. Wulf hissed and slipped his knife under the man's sternum and into his heart, giving him a quicker death. The hand around his own went slack. He hefted the body back up on the rock and let it slump forward in a bad parody of a sitting man. In the dark and from the distance it was good enough to fool anybody who did not take a closer look.

With the smell of the dead warrior's blood in his nose, Wulf slunk through the camp, taking notice of everything they could use to their advantage. He was at the far back when he noticed another tent, bigger than the others and standing apart. It was surrounded by stakes, a wild goat's head adorning one of them. He did not bother speculating, but snuck up to the tent from which he heard a droning rattle of what sounded like a man dying from the cold in his lungs. The sound rose and fell in slow, regular intervals and it was accompanied by snoring.

Wulf knelt at the flap and felt the sizzling crack of magic lazily rolling across the floor. He could be sure now to have found his target. Argis had been right about the smell. Even through the leather the pungent stench of raw meat gone rancid saturated the air, along with something that made his hackles rise. He tried to focus on the magic he had felt and was relieved to find a pattern he was familiar with. The warrior regularly used the spell to fortify his own camps.

Nifty. Most mages could not work runes. They were difficult and took a long time to make and were never as strong as active magic, but they did not wear off and you needed neither soulgems nor a great amount of power, just control.

Wulf was glad to be alone now, worked magic best when undisturbed, he did not need a bunch of Nords releasing their battlecries next to him.

Runes were magic tied to objects; carvings in stone, or stitches in a fabric or - he found them after a brief search - signs etched into the dirt. Primitive, but just as effective, as long as the symbols were intact.

Wulf looked at the strings of energy that he could find, followed their lines and intersections before reaching inside and plucking one thread. Unravelling magic was like unravelling knots in a rope. Force availed you nothing, it would either tighten the knot or rip apart the string – and trigger the magical effect. No, he had to look at the flaws and pick out the right one to loosen the whole structure before he took it apart.

The hagraven's spell was surprisingly similar to Wulf's own and he quickly detected the weakness, the interruption where the magic was not flowing but had been tied off. He cast his own power into the spell to keep it up and smeared some of the runes with his foot and then let go of the flow of magic and with baited breath watched the whole ward collapse.

The hagraven's unnerving breath had not changed in pitch or frequency; she was asleep still.

Sloppy. Cyremon had taught Wulf to always back up his wards with a spell that would trigger should the original be messed with. Of course the second one could be dispelled too, but that was much more difficult as the magic would have to be actively kept up with exactly the same intensity and pattern used by the weaver.

Wulf next opened the real knots that held closed the flap and slipped inside, alert for more magical traps. There were none, though, only the silhouette of a table to the left and a dark shape lying on a bed of straw to the right. The warrior pulled his sword from its sheath. The blade descended on flesh with a dull thud, bit through sinews and cartilage and bone. It was a lucky stroke that severed the hagraven's spinal cord in the first blow and her head rolled over, attached to the rest of the body by only a flimsy fibre of muscle. Blood spurted into the straw, the colour lost in the darkness, but not so the smell of it, pungent and as inhuman as the rest of the creature.

And then, Wulfryk realized, it was absolutely quiet. He huffed out a breath, pleased with his work and after cleaning and sheathing his sword he slung it back over his shoulder and turned to leave. Wulf's hip knocked against the table in the wrong way and he grunted at having the edge dig into his bone. He cast a look at it and his heart missed a beat. What the warrior had first taken for the carcass of an animal turned out to be the body of a grown man, clad in the furs of his people with a headdress made from a stag's antlers pulled over his face.

Amongst bushels of snowberries and heather and the severed heads of various small animals, his heart was lying on a platter like some gruesome offering. Wulf did another double-take when he realized that's just what it was.

"Shor's bones!"

The dead guy stirred and began to sit up with a low groan, like he had been just asleep.

How in Shor's name did you kill somebody who had already had his heart removed!? Wulf suppressed a minor panic attack and settled for the good old knife-through-the-eye-method. As long as the guy's head wasn't stuffed with shrubbery as well it ought to work fine.

He fumbled out his knife with fingers that did not feel like his own and, grabbing the confused Forsworn's head with one hand, plunged the dagger in to the hilt with the other. It took a few seconds for the man's spasms to stop and then they did, Wulf removed his knife, wiping it on a piece of cloth.

This was some sort of necromancy he had never encountered before. It was probably too much to hope for that he never would again.

Nevertheless, he was intrigued. The Nord cut through the straps that sewed shut the gaping hole in the dead Forsworn's chest and used his knife to fish out the seed that had been stuffed inside. Wulf pocketed the briarheart's briar-heart and checked that the camp outside was just as quiet and peaceful as it had been when he had snuck in. It was. The only thing moving in the dead of the night was he.  

The warrior made sure to repeatedly whistle softly as he approached the place where their soldiers were hidden. He did not want to end up with a sword buried in his skull because somebody was edgy. His companions all rose from their crouched positions, their dark shapes barely visible against the sky when they blocked out the stars.

Wulf did not see Argis until the man roughly grabbed Wulf's shoulders and it seemed he wanted to shake his Thane, but settled on asking if Wulfryk was alright.

"Yes; and I've got a plan," Wulf announced happily, ignoring his housecarl's silent, but menacing presence. He could smell the anger rolling off of the warrior. Soon he could vent it on somebody other than the dark-haired man beside him.

"What do we do?" Lars asked.

Wulf chuckled. He was in love with his plan and eager to share it. "We set them on fire," the warrior stated, laughing quietly. "I've – found oil." He had almost said smelled, but nobody noticed the slip. "They have several jars of it and they have this habit of sleeping on beds of straw..."

"Let's cure them of it," Iver sniggered.

"A fire is bound to wake the whole camp," Argis pointed out thoughtfully. He appeared to have gotten a grip on himself.

"One scream is all it takes to wake them up," Wulf countered, "We can attack in pairs and hope we get as many as we can, however, they have magical wards. Or we can settle for utter chaos."

"Fire will give us the light to see," Pike pointed out.

"And blind them if it's the first thing they walk up to," Iver said in agreement.

"Lots of smoke, confusion...everybody's bound to panic when they wake up on fire." Lars joined in.

"What about the hagraven?" Gerimund asked and his words wiped the grins that had begun to form on the faces around him.

"She won't be troubling us anymore," Wulf replied nonchalantly and ignored Argis' cursing. He could just feel his housecarl's eyes drill into his back. The blond warrior could grouse all he liked, but Wulf had seen an opportunity and seized it.

They quickly settled on a tactic. Wulf was in the lead and he pointed out the bone chimes to the others and suppressed a snort of laughter when Lars jumped a foot in the air when he spotted the dead sentry. Wulf had quite forgotten about him. He showed Kjald and Theryn where the oil was hidden away and then cowered down next to Argis. The others were in pairs as well, and Wulf counted the seconds in his head.

Finally his housecarl got up and nodded and together they stormed the first tent. Wulf had been right, in one thing. Shouts arose from several places at the same time. The warrior stabbed the woman who was scrambling to get up and to his left Argis dealt with her comrades.

When they emerged it was to see half of the camp being devoured by flames, and between the tents panicked figures were running and trying to form some defence against the Nords who had descended upon them out of nowhere.

Thirty Forsworn was not a large camp, but it was hardly small either. The Madmen fought like, well, madmen despite or maybe because of the rude awakening.

Wulf could understand, he was not a morning person either. He lent his battlecry to those of his comrades and ran a man through who had taken the wrong turn. The heat of the fire made sweat sting at his temple and the smoke impaired the visibility. All around him were the sounds of the raging fight; the screams of the dying and the alarmed calls of their enemy and between them, sometimes a bellowed Nord curse or taunt reached Wulf's ears.

Through the smoke the warrior saw more figures running, bowed low and too light on their feet to be their friends. He elbowed Argis in the side and they were running to charge them. Argis barrelled into the foremost man shield-first, sending the smaller Breton flying and Wulf evaded the woman who jumped at him and kicked her in the back of her knee. The Forsworn stumbled to her knees, but Wulf had no time to deal with her, because he was already spinning and then his shield connected with a sword that had been aimed for his head. Bone shards went flying and Wulf flinched back, but so did the Forsworn and the Nord's shield smashing into him unbalanced him enough that Wulf could slip his sword under his defence. There was a bloody good reason warriors wore armour, but the unfortunate man learned too late as his guts tangled around his knees.

In the time it had taken Wulf to deal with the warrior, Argis had put his three friends into the ground, including the woman whose head was no longer attached to her body.

They moved on, following the screams to the camp's edge, Wulf casting awed glances at his housecarl. The man knew how to fight.

Out of nowhere, something knocked into Wulfryk. He pushed at the figure, sending it to the ground and ready to strike only to let his sword fly past the startled man's head by an inch. It appeared Meining had joined the fight. And then the last Forsworn defenders burst from a row of tents, which would explain why the scout had been so hastily backing off.

Argis intercepted the first attacker, dropped into a crouch and hacked away her legs while Meining rolled back to his feet and stabbed the fallen enemy through the throat. Wulf had a man with two axes going after him, and another one with what looked like a roasting spit. He jumped to the side, let the Forsworn bump into each other and the tip of his sword grazed the right warrior's thigh. But the Wulf had to withdraw again, because the axe-wielding Forsworn was chipping away at his shield like he wanted to reduce it to timber. The attacks had no finesse, just a lot of anger. Wulf kicked at the second man, slipped by and slashed the first one across the back hard enough to reveal his ribs and spine. The man turned with a shriek of pain, eyes bulging and stumbled forward again, his teeth bared in a bloody grimace, even as his friend moved to flank the Nord. Couldn't they just die already?

Before Wulf could lift his shield again to face the attackers, Argis had buried his throwing axe in the left man's chest with a bellow. The warrior had pried it out of the corpse and stuck the handle through its ring in the next instant and his shield appeared in the corner of Wulf's eyes before it connected with the other Forsworn's head.

And then, suddenly, things were quiet with the sole exception of their panting breaths and the crackling of the fire.

The three of them stuck closely together as they walked slowly, eyes and ears strained for any sound or sign of movement. Two more figures, appeared through the smoke, but they were not attacking. One was sitting on the ground.

"You alright?" Argis called and they hurried over.

"Aye," Pike gasped. "Lend's sprained an ankle. Where are the others?"

"Meining shrugged, but soon there was a call from the other side of the camp.

Pike and Meining helped Lend up and supported the warrior, while Argis and Wulf walked in front. They found the rest of their group in front of the former Forsworn camp, out of the smoke. Kjald, Theryn, Iver and Gerimund; and everybody was standing. Iver had a bleeding cut across his arm that his lover was binding tightly, but they were alive. When a man with a horned headdress jumped out of the dark, waving his arms, several swords were drawn before the man disposed of his ornament and Lars' grinning visage came into view from beneath it.

Argis punched him for the dumb prank, but Wulf saw the white flash of his teeth. All the tension had left the housecarl and he turned to Lend who was balancing on one leg.

"Are you hurt badly?"

"He stumbled over a chicken," Pike chortled in answer and one after the other everybody joined in. The laughter turned to a roar and then a cheer went up. Wulf's was glad to be wearing mail, because he got so many slaps on the back he would have been black and blue without it. They put down the wounded Forsworn, looted their camp for any valuables and as the first stars were winking out, retreated back to their own encampment to celebrate the victory.

Iver had packed some hard liquor made from juniper berries and before long they were drunk on more than triumph.

 

xxxx

 

"I heard from a reliable source that you've put two hundred Septims of blood money on the hagraven," Wulfryk spoke up beside Argis on their way home. The hangover did not spoil his good mood in the slightest.

"Reliable source?" the warrior repeated and thought 'Iver, you traitorous bastard.'

Wulf's answer was a broad grin. "Now, about that debt I owe you..."

"Fine," Argis admitted grudgingly. His Thane had maybe even saved lives by sneaking into the camp killing that hagraven when she was asleep, stupid risk though it had been. "Consider it lowered to six hundred gold."

"I think the Thornheart is worth just as much, don't you, Sunshine?" Wulf pulled the seed he had taken out of the dead guy's chest from his pocket and presented it to his housecarl with an innocent smile.

And listened to Argis curse him for a reckless fool the whole way back to Markarth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter to make up for the extra long wait.  
> Also, Uni will keep me very busy for the next months; I will do my best to update every two weeks.


	14. Chapter 14

Markarth was a sight to behold, with the round dome of the Temple of Dibella reaching into the sky and the sun behind the Understone Keep, glinting off polished stone and setting the streams that flowed through the city on fire. Argis rolled his shoulders, feeling the last coils of tension leave him. They were back, their mission was successful and he would not have to make the dreaded, trice-cursed trip to visit relatives or spouses and explain why their beloved one was not going to return, that they could pay their last respects to the remains in the Hall of the Dead. It was Argis' duty as leader to try and offer hollow words of comfort and to endure their grief and accusing stares that it had been him who had taken their loved one with him.

Not this time.

They were back and none of his men had suffered a grievous injury.

Meining had allowed Lend to ride his horse since there was nothing more that could be done for the soldier out in the field and Wulfryk had, over the course of several days, healed the cut in Ivar's arm. That had been a surprise, and a thoughtful gesture that had made the soldiers like him all the more. Before the next day Argis was sure they were going to spread the news and raise the man's popularity.

The Nord appeared to be basking in the attention levelled on him, though his demeanour changed to more serious whenever the housecarl was nearby.

His Thane might not know it and hopefully would never find out, but a couple of days ago Argis had been a hair's breadth from burying his fist in the other man's face. Knock him out and truss him up in the tent, then Argis could take care of the Forsworn without worrying about his Thane's idiocy getting them all killed. He'd deal with the consequences later.

He had almost done it when he had received the order to stay behind. Almost.

But not a week ago he had sworn to serve the man, and if it was only a vow he had made to himself, it was one he intended to keep. It had stayed his hand long enough for the rage to abate, to harden into cold, grim resolve and he stormed off before he might do something he'd regret, only to stop and curse a couple of yards into the forest.

He should have known. The scholars said that history had a way of repeating itself.

Argis had changed his course then, and crashed back through the forest and to where the soldiers sat huddled together forming a ring and sharing cold rations. The housecarl received a few glances from beneath their brows that varied from nervous to sympathetic, but Lars was the only one to approach him.

"He's gone, Argis," the redhead said quietly when he saw the housecarl was ready to storm the enemy camp by himself after he had looked around futilely and did not see his Thane amongst the other warriors. "Don't worry, he'll be back."

The soldier was one of Argis' best friends, but he was an idiot. If something went wrong, Argis could say goodbye to Sovngarde and his position as housecarl and throw his honour right after because he wasn't sure he could ever leave the Reach, his home. He had spent long minutes pacing, and barked at the soldiers to get ready to attack at the first sign of trouble.

And then Wulfryk had come back, grinning and rubbing his hands over a plan that had worked out like a charm. He'd not only managed to somehow get close enough to the hagraven to kill her without getting himself set on fire, but also got the briarheart and by doing so probably saved more than one life that day. Argis did not know how his Thane had accomplished either, although…considering that the Nord seemed to know magic, maybe that was how he had gotten past the Forsworn wards. It was more than any of the army's few mages had done. The Forsworn magic was a primeval thing, different from what they taught in the College and whilst their few spellcasters were good enough for throwing up shields or blasting a few enemies apart, they had no understanding of the old magick.

Argis had felt sick throughout the evening, imagining what could have been and the alcohol did nothing to calm down what felt like snakes writhing in his belly. And he was angry. He drank with the others and tried not to let any of his thoughts show and he thought he had succeeded rather well, although his memories didn't stretch beyond the first hour of celebrating.

Argis had received an apology-of sorts- on the morrow after their little party and he might have been more agreeable had he not been nursing a massive hangover.

"Look," Wulfryk had begun in a tone that indicated that he knew that whatever he had to say would disagree with Argis. "I'm sorry about your honour, but it's my life at stake here as well and I know you as well as you know me." Which was, not at all. "So I'd rather take care of some things of my own rather than risk my life in some collective stupidity where you and everybody else can get yourselves killed on some dumb Nord principle."

And all Argis had heard was pretty much a confirmation of everything he had feared. "You think you can fight your way out _on your own_ if something goes awry?"

"I'd rather not," Wulfryk replied thoughtfully, as if he did not consider it entirely impossible.

The housecarl shook his head. Bloody fool would get himself killed. It wasn't going to happen again. He would not let it happen, he had decided that in a moment drunken clarity before he had fallen into a stupor. Why should he heed orders when his Thane was no leader?

If there was a decision to be felled he was amongst the first to look towards the housecarl for guidance. When Argis had addressed the matter, asked whether he did not want to more actively assume the role of commander, the other man had only shrugged and said that he did not know yet how things were done around here. And seeing as they seemed to have been working fine without him, why should he change anything? It was a clever enough answer Argis almost missed how it wasn't one at all. But it was not his place to tell his Thane so, even if he were not of the opinion that the other Nord was right.

They did not need anybody interfering with affairs that were well in hand and running smoothly, had been for years. The last Thane who had though it a good idea to meddle, they'd had the joyous task of scraping off the ground with pocketknives to bring back a handful of bloody pulp and bone shards for a symbolic burial.

Argis had already proven he was not going to uphold one man's misguided pride over the lives of many, though he hoped he would never be in a situation again where he had to choose a side. It had seemed like a great solution at the time to his muddled brain, but in the clear light of the morning and without the alcohol to grease the tangled mess that were his thoughts, the argument fell flat. It was never as easy as that.

"Home, sweet home," Lars sighed and stretched, dropping his pack with a loud clatter that interrupted the housecarl's brooding. "I'm gonna hit the Shed and get drunk," the soldier stated with an expression of bliss on his face. "Ya comin', Argis?"

Argis shook his head, glad that the dark thoughts from before had been chased away. All he wanted was to enjoy a quiet evening by the hearth's fire back home and to turn in early, knowing that his night's rest would be undisturbed by Forsworn, wild beasts, bandits and any other unpleasant surprises or emergencies.

Gods, he had grown old.

Lars turned to the other man beside him, unfazed by the refusal. "Wulf?"

"Not today," Wulfryk declined. "I've got a hideous but heavenly comfy bed that's been missing me awfully bad."

Argis snorted. It had been the other way round, of that he was sure. He eyed the remaining soldiers and, feeling that a few parting words were in order, congratulated everybody on a job well done. Kjald and Pike had taken Lend to see a physician, the scout was grooming his horse outside of the city and Lars marched off with one last wave, but Gerimund clasped the housecarl's arm in farewell and Iver moved in for a brief embrace.

"Don't be a stranger," the soldier said quietly before leaving.

Wulfryk exchanged a few words with Theryn that ended with both of them laughing uproariously and Argis waited patiently until they were done and his Thane caught up to him.

The housecarl stopped abruptly and hung back for a few steps, coming up on the Nord's other side. His Thane had the irritating habit of walking to his left, and as long as he was beside Argis, he was in his blind spot. If Wulf noticed Argis' peculiar behaviour he did not react to it in any way. Both men's strides lengthened until Wulf walked right past the staircase that led to Vlindrel hall and his housecarl had to call him back, lips quirking with amusement.

Wulfryk had a slightly sheepish look on his face and muttered something about getting lost, not that Argis was paying him much heed at that point. He let out a happy groan when all the stairs were behind them and the lock clicked when he turned the key and the door swung open to reveal the familiar sight and smell of his home. It was good to be back. There was nothing that could make Argis leave again today; not if Igmund personally came to plead on his knees because all the Forsworn of the Reach were knocking on Markarth's gates.

 

xxxx

 

Wulf toed off his muddy shoes - he had not forgotten Argis' peculiar house rule and had no intention of riling up the warrior.

Especially after their somewhat strained encounter in the woods when Wulf had walked a few steps away from where the rest of the soldiers were making merry to take an undisturbed piss in the wood. Of course somebody had to follow, and he had turned his head when a twig snapped underfoot with a sharp crack. Wulf had to admit that he was surprised to see that it was Argis, but he was more worried because the warrior had been regarding him with a glazed stare of an intensity that only a truly smashed person ever could fully achieve.

"There's trees enough for the both of us," Wulf had offered chivalrously.

"If you ever think of pulling another such brainless stunt, I'll break both your fucking legs and tie you in a knot," the warrior snarled back and Wulf could feel his good mood wilting, wondering if it had been a bad idea to leave his sword with the others. Now his housecarl was threatening bodily harm, through judging by how the blond warrior was waving on his feet, he probably wasn't up to making good on the threat straight away. Argis had pointed an astonishingly accurate finger at Wulf – whose thoughts drifted to the topic of whether one-eyed men ever had double-vision and – and hiccupped a deferential "Thane," that did not go well at all with his earlier comment. The warrior had drained half of the bottle of juniper spirit he had carried here in one go like it was milk and staggered back to camp without another glance for Wulfryk.

And that had been it. On the next day Argis was acting as if nothing untoward had happened and Wulf was baffled enough by his behaviour to consider the possibility that it had just been some weird conjuration of his addled brain, especially as Argis had fallen right back into his role as obedient housecarl though he did look a little rough around the edges for the next two days. They all did, which did not diminish the high spirits one bit.

 

Wulf pulled open the straps of his pack and put it down to lean against the wall. One of his boots fell over, across the carpet of the hallway and he thought he heard the housecarl's unhappy harrumph, but Wulf did not further contemplate it as he rolled his shoulders and neck, both which were aching and stiff after long hours of marching. They had pushed hard on their way back, but then nobody except for Meining wanted to spend one more night than absolutely necessary out in the wilds. The scout could stay outside all through winter for all Wulf cared at the moment, but what _he_ needed was a nice, hot bath to soak in and relax.

Luckily, Vlindrel Hall was just the place where he could get that. Argis was busy lighting a fire that would chase away the damp and chill of a house abandoned for too long while Wulf made his way to the bathroom. He was both amused and amazed that somebody would dedicate an entire room to bathing, but then Argis had told him that it was not an uncommon thing with the Dwemer and frankly, he was quite glad for it. It was a most welcome sight, the rectangular 'tub' that was more of a pool set in the floor, and big enough that Wulf could stretch out in every direction.

There were three levers, Argis had explained their use. Wulf threw the first one and heard the rush and gurgle of water running through the pipe and boiler and one more pipe to come out on the stones below. The whole mechanism was so simple; Wulf wondered how nobody else had thought of it. Maybe he could make a fortune by selling it to the Jarls of Skyrim. The many streams of melt water that ran through Markarth were good for more than just powering water wheels, but the implementation of the mechanics might be difficult in another place. He discarded the idea again.

The Nord was so lost in thought as he leaned against the wall, that it took him a while to realize he had forgotten to turn the last lever, the one that prevented all the water from draining away again. He hurriedly remedied that and cast a look over his shoulder to ensure himself that Argis had not witnessed his oversight.

He had not. The housecarl had disappeared, but fires were roaring in two of the house's four fireplaces. Apparently the Dwemer liked more than just warm water. Wulf snatched some logs from a nearby basket and went back. It would take a while for the tub to fill and once it had done so about halfway through, Wulf turned the second lever and let the boiler fill. He used the sound of the flowing water to judge when the metal cistern was full and then he shut off the water entirely and lit a fire underneath.

Wulf then returned to the hallway to find his pack and boots gone. The former he found lying atop his bed and the letter he did not look after. The warrior undressed, hanging his armour over a chair and tossing the dirty clothes in a pile next to the door. Within a short time he had unpacked his belongings. Some things the Nord stored on the many shelves while others he took to the living room so that they might dry properly before he would air them out and put them away.

Argis climbed out of the cellar at the very moment, grumbling something to himself that sounded like a grocery list. He carried a lamp in one hand and he was looking unhappy. "Are you hungry, my Thane?" the housecarl asked and his tone indicated that he very much hoped it was not so.

"No, but if you want to take a bath anytime within the next hour, we'll have to share." Wulf wasn't selfish enough to occupy the bath all by himself when there was more than enough space for two and Argis had to be just as weary and grimy as he himself was. Besides, it was more fun when there was somebody Wulf could talk to. Argis looked like he might refuse, more from habit than actually hearing what Wulf had said, but apparently the warrior had no intentions of waiting and had come to the same conclusion as Wulfryk.

Argis nodded and disappeared into his room where Wulf did not follow this time. The other Nord was much more orderly than Wulf; his chest piece was hanging on a mannequin with all the other parts of his armour neatly laid out.

Wulf left his housecarl to check on the water; it was boiling and he unlaced his pants and kicked out of them, before he knelt by the pool's edge and lit his oil lamp. When the fire had reduced the embers to coals he closed the hinged lid of the boiler and let a goodly amount of the hot water mix with the cold one already in the tub and stirred it with his foot. When it hit just the right temperature, Wulf slowly lowered himself into the bath and groaned in delight at the burn.

Argis entered the room and put down his lamp. Its light added to the one already there, the flames dancing over stone tiles in a way that made Wulf's eyes tired and close of their own accord. He yawned and pried them open again to see that his housecarl carried something that he tossed to his Thane and Wulf caught a rolled up towel before it smacked him in the face. It was impossibly thick and soft and he used it to pillow his head atop. The cloth smelled of pine and juniper with a hint of lavender and, even more faintly, of the man who dipped in a hand into the water and withdrew it quickly.

"Didn't you overdo it a bit?" the blond warrior asked gruffly, but he did sit on the edge and soaked his feet to adjust to the temperature.

"It'll cool down in a while," Wulf replied. The heat was seeping into his tired muscles and there was something incredibly luxurious about being able to stretch out whilst bathing. While he seldom was cold, it did not mean that he did not appreciate being _warm_ every now and then. Warm enough that a few beads of sweat pricked at his temples. The last months had been rather cold, wet and altogether miserable, Wulf thought as the hall was filling with the almost incense-like smell of burning wood. The gentle sloshing of water was lulling him to sleep until the level rose and splashed against his chin when Argis finally immersed himself.

"This is good."

"M-hmm," Wulf hummed in agreement. "I knew there was something missing in my life."

Argis chuckled and Wulf heard him draw in a deep breath and sigh in pleasure. When he opened his eyes again Argis was stretched out with his arms crossed behind his head. The housecarl was as relaxed as Wulf had ever seen him, which only served to empathise how wound up he had been up until now. But Wulf could not sense any of the warrior's rigid formality or tension from before. Maybe it was being washed away, along with the dirt. Gone was also the pendant that Argis seemed to be quite fond of.

The housecarl had some impressive claw marks on his chest; four vertical lines on each half ranging from just two finger's wide to a full three inches on the left side, closest to the breastbone. They were all the more visible for the scar tissue being slightly raised and cutting through the hair on Argis' chest. It was a darker shade of blonde than his hair, though it was difficult to tell in the dim, dancing light. Wulf should have looked more closely before his housecarl had slipped into the water. There was plenty to appreciate of the warrior all around and Wulfryk spent a few heartbeats bemoaning the lost opportunity before he spoke up.

"That was some big cat."

Argis didn't stir, but he answered with a small smile. He sounded pleased. "Made an even bigger mistake."

Wulf could not see his mangled right arm, folded as it was to support the warrior's head, but he recognized the deep slashes across Argis' left forearm as knife wounds. What he could not relate to any weapon was a round scar with jagged edges on his housecarl's side that pulled at the surrounding skin. It was sizeable and looked to have been painful one, but was now faded.

"What's that one from?" Wulf asked, pointing.

The blond warrior looked down his body like he had forgotten about the mark and rubbed the spot absent-mindedly. "Spear. Almost did me in. It's an old one," Argis shrugged and told how he had received it not too long after he had begun his training as a housecarl and how it had led to an involuntary break from it.

Which led to Wulf having to recount how he had been shot twice and had to drag himself out of a tomb and to the next city which had been almost a week away. He did not tell the entire truth, but other than avoiding the Companions, Whiterun and the Silver Hand it was an easy, safe topic. Wulf had yet to meet a Nord who was not happy to brag about the marks he had received in battle. They were something to be proud of, for scars were the proof that a warrior had faced danger and survived it.

Eventually the water did grow cool and they let in some more from the boiler, though the pool was in danger of spilling over. By then Wulf's fingers were all wrinkled and he figured it was time to get on with what he had actually come here for.

"You got any soap?"

Argis had brought two slices for them and Wulf worked up a nice lather and scrubbed himself clean. His hair received the same treatment - three times, before Wulf was happy. The Nord could feel his wet locks tickle as they were plastered against his back, way too low. He would have to visit a barber one of these days. Instead of rinsing he slipped beneath the water's surface and came up when he could no longer hold his breath. All the soreness from before was gone, along with the fatigue that had threatened to overwhelm him earlier.

Wulf climbed out of the bath and slung the towel over his shoulder without bothering to dry off. The air would do that for him. He wrung the water from his hair as well as he could and stopped halfway to his room to hop on one leg a couple of times to with his head tilted to the side get it out of his ear as well.

Argis followed not long after. "Is there a reason you're dripping all over my floor? My Thane?"

Wulf turned to face the housecarl. The man had his towel slung around his hips and he watched his Thane with his arms crossed and a frown of disapproval. "Just thinking if maybe I'm not up to a night of drinking after all," Wulf replied. "Would you come?"

Argis shook his head. "No. I've got armour to take care of." With that the Nord disappeared into his bedroom.

Wulf shrugged even if there was nobody there to see it and slipped into a pair of soft, fine trousers made from tundra cotton and slung the towel across his shoulders to prevent drops of water from running down his back. He hated the feeling. Argis was barefooted, but dressed again when Wulf entered the living room, which was a pity, really, and he was laying out various objects on the table next to the fire. Wulfryk saw everything from his breastplate to an old leather belt.

"Armour," he picked up where Argis had left off. "You know any good smiths around here?"

Argis looked up briefly from his task. "Moth," he said. "If he doesn't have something he can point you the right way. He's usually in the Keep, has his forge there. Just ask any of the guards. Though if he's busy you can talk to his sister, Ghorza." The housecarl opened a container and a variety of brushes, clothes, oils and tools tumbled out.

"Orcs?" Wulf asked, his eyes glued to the utensils. He had not been sure about 'Moth' but Ghorza definitely was an Orsimer name.

"Aye. They know their craft."

"You mind if I join you?" Wulf did not want to receive the well rehearsed answer of 'It would be an honour'. He wanted a friend he could talk to, not a servant. Wulfryk was not sure whether Argis really valued his gods-damned floor so much that he suddenly would become withdrawn again, but wanted to see the guy he had caught glimpses of here and there, the man that was well loved by all the soldiers he had talked to thus far because he stuck with them no matter what and never hesitated to aid a comrade in dire straits, even if he had to chare straight into danger at a risk to his own life. Wulf was aware that for all the talk of housecarls and Thanes he was an intruder in the other Nord's home. Argis did strike him as a person of a rather solitary nature and he was reserved in the company of all but his closest friends and then Wulf had only caught brief flashes of the warrior with his guard down.

If he was not welcome here, he could leave and go drink with Lars in that establishment with the dubious name, but Wulf did not feel like being alone right now. He'd been on his own ever since he had left Whiterun and he was fairly sick of it, more so because he missed the camaraderie that had developed between the warriors.

The firelight made deep shadows dance across Argis' scarred cheek when he looked up. The white of his blind eye was shining brightly in the shadowy room, but neither his eyes nor his expression betrayed any of the blond warrior's thoughts. After a heartbeat that felt like an eternity to Wulf, he nudged the chair to his right with his bare foot and it slid out from under the table invitingly.

"I'll just get my things, yes?" Wulf smiled. He knew the grump would come around. Wulf received no answer, but when he came back with his arms full of armour and what few tools to keep it intact that he possessed, he saw that Argis had made space for him. Two mugs were standing on the table, one was steaming.

"Tea?" The housecarl offered when Wulf had seated himself on the chair Argis had proffered.

A kettle hung over the fire and before Wulf could bite his tongue he asked, "Why the pot? We have hot water aplenty."

The appalled look he received in answer was almost comical. "That's for bathing."

"It's water," Wulf replied, but his logic escaped his housecarl entirely and the blond warrior glared until Wulf announced that yes, he would love some tea.

Argis tossed a handful of something into Wulfryk's mug that Wulf identified as dried rose hip. The tea was sweet and tart, but mostly sour. It tasted refreshing and before he knew it, Wulf was on his second mug, this infusion much stronger in taste.

"Keeps you healthy," Argis stated with a dry grin when he looked up from polishing a silver buckle to see that his Thane had set aside his brush and the cloth he had used to buff oil into his vambraces in favour of nursing the tea.

"How do you know?"

"My ma always used to make it when we worked long in the fields." Argis wasn't really sure if it warded off illness, but he remembered how it had been when everybody sat together and they let the warmth seep back into their limbs, so he just repeated the words.

"You were a farmer?" Wulf had difficulty imagining the huge Nord next to him as anything but a warrior.

Argis chuckled at his Thane's disbelieving tone. "I wasn't born with a sword in my hand, you know?"

"Damn. I never would have guessed."

Apparently it was the right thing to say, because the wide grin he received in answer was probably the first genuine smile that Argis did not hold back.

Wulf went back to scrubbing off dirt and rust a while later and Argis bent his head over the glove he was stitching. They worked mostly in silence, only exchanging a few words to ask when the other would be done with the one brush or if he could hand over the oil, please? But it was a companionable silence, unstrained and after a long while Wulf's ears picked out a curious sound over, or rather through the crackling of the fire.

He did not hear it as much as he felt it, right through his chest; a deep rumble that made tiny ripples ghost over his tea's surface. Argis was humming to himself, lost in thought and clearly having quite forgotten he was not alone. Or maybe he did not mind so much anymore. Wulf did not recognize the melody, but he listened in fascination and did not speak or look up from his work for fear of breaking the moment. When he caught the one or other word, he did not understand the meaning, but he thought the song was a tad out of tune, wild and carrying a heavy longing. He realized after listening for a long while that it had to be Málforn, the Old Tongue that Lars had mentioned and Argis had been reluctant to admit that he knew.

When Wulf was done with all the leather parts he decided that he, while not exactly having fun, was enjoying himself nonetheless and he fetched the rest of his armour. He could actually not recall when he had cleaned it quite as thoroughly, but under the scrutinizing gaze that Argis sometimes cast on Wulf's handiwork, the Nord knew that nothing less would suffice.

When he brought it in, Argis was eying Wulf's shirt of mail with rapt attention. "I've never seen anything quite like it before."

"Nor will you. The design is from Elsweyr, the execution is Nordic." Wulf untied the many knots that secured the mail to its leather underside and the woollen padding underneath and put those aside for later treatment. Being able to take everything apart and repair or replace it had been an essential thing in the design. The whole armour would be useless to Wulf if he could not patch it up whilst on the road should it be damaged. Though Eorlund had sniffed in offence at the implication that his precious work might ever be broken, he had abided by the instructions. It was what Wulf had paid for, after all.

Argis was inspecting how each of the small plates were welded into place and padded.

"It's quiet," Wulf remarked with a small smile.

The housecarl grunted, not convinced. "It'll block any slashes and thrusts, but it moves," and here he jabbed a finger at the brigandine as if to prove his point, "So if you take a blow from a weapon with some weight, you'll have broken bones."

"That's why I'm wearing the leather over it."

"Leather hardly compares to steel," Argis argued and leaned closer to polish one of the plates with the hem of his shirt. "And this one has a funny colour. I hope whoever made this hasn't swindled you out of your money."

Wulf laughed. He could not tell the truth, of course, but he could very well imagine Eorlund's face at the accusation. "Leather _cushions_ ," he responded instead. "I've seen plates dented and it's ugly."

That got them into a discussion of plates versus mails and the advantages and downsides of light and heavy armour. Wulf managed to get Argis to leave his choices be and after a while the warrior put aside his shin guard and fixed all his attention on his Thane.

"Where is it? Elsweyr?"

"It's ...elsewhere." Wulfryk sniggered at his own joke.

Argis did not laugh along, either because he was not amused or too deep in thought to have paid much attention to his Thane's answer. "Never had any dealings with the cats myself," he admitted. "They have a little camp outside the city and we meet their caravans on the road sometimes, or find their corpses when they run into the Forsworn."

"They're really quite nice people once you get to know them," Wulf replied and tried not to sound offended that his housecarl had had more dealings with dead Khajiit than live ones and that he appeared not in the least bothered by the fact. He had already found out that most Nords who had never left their homeland weren't exactly eager to make contact with foreigners or overly friendly to them. "Most are, anyway."

Argis did not comment, but grunted with something that might be understanding as easily as it might be the exact opposite. "How did you come by such armour?"

"I used to live there." It was a story Wulf had told more times than he could recount, but he did so anyway. At least Argis did not interrupt him, or pass judgement, just picked up a needle and thread and set to patching up some stitches that were coming loose. At the end of his Thane's tale he looked contemplative about everything he had heard, but Wulf was not so sure he believed that there was a land to the south where snow never fell. Explaining a desert had put Wulf before some unpredicted difficulties since Argis could not begin to imagine endless flatlands with nothing but sand, rocks and dunes. Wulfryk remembered the talk they had had on the first day they had met; that Argis had never even seen Skyrim's tundra, having spent his entire live in the Reach.

Which brought him right back to something that was still on his mind, though he had not found the opportunity to ask so far. "What was it about? The song you were singing earlier?" Wulf did not care whether his question was rather peculiar, but he sincerely wanted to know. "It sounded sad."

"It did?" The housecarl did not seem self-conscious at all, but rather amused. "Actually, it is about the spirits that dwell in the mountains and about finding hope," he said. "I guess the tune is as old as the Reach itself."

"Then it was the Old Tongue, yes?" In truth, he already knew the answer, but Wulf asked nonetheless just to keep their conversation alive. He did not come out and say that if that was cheerful, then he did not want to know what sad sounded like for fear he might get depressed.

"Have you ever lost hope?" Argis asked, serious once more, with his chin held in one hand.

A surprisingly profound question to be asked over hip rose tea and the smell of grease and leather, in the middle of the night. Wulf answered it without thinking, just from the feeling in the pit of his stomach. "No. I wouldn't be alive if I had."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. But I found it again." The housecarl shifted and coughed, looking away as he began to collect various pieces of armour. "It's getting late."

"I don't have to get up early, do I?" Wulf tried for some levity, and got up, lifting his mail carefully so as not to get oil all over himself.

"The Jarl probably wants to see you. I'm sure he has some reward." Argis had just about dashed Wulf's dreams about sleeping in until midday, but he paused with a frown, and after a moment of thought added, And I would like to spar."

"Sure," Wulf shrugged and yawned, feeling like Argis' comment about the time had made his body aware of just how tired he was. "As long as it's not on an empty stomach."

The answering depreciative snort told him what his housecarl thought about going hungry and Wulf grinned as he ambled to his room. "Good night."

"'Night," Argis grunted back absent-mindedly, the gruff word somehow conveying a warmth that Wulf had not picked out of his tone before, in spite of the other Nord having his back to Wulfryk and being by all means busy poking at the embers in the hearth. Then the housecarl straightened and cleared his throat, remembering. "My Thane."

Wulf sighed. He'd have to cure the man of that before it became a bad habit. Starting tomorrow.


	15. Chapter 15

Argis sat down in his rocky, overgrown rooftop garden amidst bushels of now dry herbs and grass which sprouted from between cracks in the stone to grow in bristly, tough tufts that were turning yellow and brown with the changing of the season. The rock was warmed by the sun, but a chill hung in the air as a constant reminder that winter was not far away. Argis had brought a satchel with the letters he had received just before he and his Thane had set out to clear out the Forsworn camp. The housecarl would have liked to have a look at them earlier, but there were things he had needed to see to first and paper could wait. Then his Thane had joined him and they had spent a very enjoyable evening working alongside each other and he had quite forgotten about them. Besides, to read he needed good light and a clear head and yesterday he had had neither.

Argis sorted through the correspondence and frowned at the newest date – had to be a mistake, that one – and opened the first letter from a few months ago, smoothing it out carefully. He did not speak out loud, but his lips formed the words as he read along the tight lines of neat script, a reply already forming in his head. He was still so much better at committing things to memory than to paper. Done, he carefully refolded the letter and put it aside. He did not pick up another one. Do it too fast and before he knew it he'd be finished and then he'd have to wait for months again.

The housecarl leaned back, braced on his hands and stared at nothing in particular, a buzzard flying lazy circles in the sky, the city beneath him, the tiny figures of people moving about their business and let his thoughts wander.

Wulfryk had been dead to the world this morning and unresponsive to all of his housecarl's attempts to wake him, so Argis had given up. Igmund had not called for him, and his Thane was well capable of deciding when he wanted to see the Jarl. If he made the man wait and got in trouble for it, it was none of Argis' business. Except that it was.

The warrior should look after his Thane. With a sigh he got up and climbed down, entering Vlindrel Hall only to find out that it had been absolutely unnecessary for him to come here. Wulfryk was up, sitting at the long dining table and listlessly moving his food from one end of the plate to the other.

"Good Morning, my Thane," Argis greeted the other Nord. "I've, uh, made breakfast." As if it was not obvious enough with the guy eating it.

"Thank you," Wulfryk muttered, "My housecarl."

Argis startled; now that didn't sound right at all. He frowned and busied himself nearby, but as a couple of minutes passed it became evident that the other Nord was not interested in any morning chatter and after asking if his Thane needed him for anything and receiving a curt shake of a head in return, the housecarl returned to his favourite spot in his tiny herbal garden and his letters.

 

xxxx

 

If Wulf had overslept and unintentionally kept Igmund waiting, the Jarl was agog about returning the favour. Wulf duly noted the reprimand, but was not particularly bothered by it. He did as Argis had advised him to and visited Moth, the Jarl's personal blacksmith. They poured over designs for Wulf's new leather armour until midday, when a guard came to fetch the Thane to tell him that Igmund was ready to see him now. Moth assured Wulfryk that either he or his sister would see about forging the armour straight away.

The Orsimer had wanted to take the Nord's measurements, but Wulf could do better than that and had brought his old leather cuirass so it could serve as reference. Moth had been anything but thrilled to see the weathered, patched leather.

"This is in rags," the blacksmith growled upon setting his eyes on the armour, his fingers already at the newest cut, the one from one of Irileth's daggers that Wulfryk had not yet gotten around to mending.

"Well, yes." Wulf agreed. "That's why I need a new one."

"I can forge you a masterpiece worthy of your position," the Orc said, a faint hint of excitement in his rough voice.

Wulf was sorry to dash his hope although he managed not to wince. The offer was well-meant even if that actually was the last thing he wanted. "Thank you." He hoped he was not offending by refusing and that by the time the smith was done he'd actually be good for the coin the Orsimer's services would cost him. "But that's something I'd rather not advertise. Makes me a bigger target, you see?"

Moth grunted something and Wulf never got to explain further, because a guard was clearing his throat behind him. Wulfryk took his leave from the blacksmith and followed the soldier until he stood before Igmund's Mourning Throne, and how fitting that it should sound just like 'morning', he thought.

The Jarl waved him closer so the two men would not have to shout at each other over the whistling sound of steam escaping from one of the overhead pipes. A small team was repairing the faulty valve under Calcemo's watchful eye; the Altmer wizard being one of the leading experts on the Dwemer – according to himself.

Wulf carefully stepped around the team, lest one of them dropped a spanner on his head and spared a smile for the Jarl's húskarl that the Redguard did not return. What was it about housecarls that made them perpetually bad-tempered? Maybe it was the place; if Wulf had to spend all of his days in this giant ruin of a palace and with Igmund no less, he'd be cross as well.

"Well?" the Jarl snapped when his Thane showed no inclination to give him a proper report.

"Umm. The Forsworn are dead," Wulf was pleased to announce.

"And?"

Was there something else? Wulf reached into his pocket and handed the Jarl the token of their victory. Igmund stared at the large seed in suspicion, as if he was afraid it might bite him. "What is _that_?"

"It's a Briarheart," Wulf said and quickly corrected himself. "Actually, it's a Briarheart's heart. I wanted to bring the hagraven's head, but after three days it began to smell so bad we had to leave it behind."

The horrified expression on the other Nord's face when he in turn stared at his Thane and the grisly gift convinced Wulf that maybe next time he should send Argis to give the Jarl an account of their mission. When Faleen took the bloody seed from a petrified Igmund he decided that now was the time to make his escape and sketched what might have been a bow or a sore knee buckling under him and left the Understone Keep.

Wulfryk had to shield his eyes with his hand, so bright was the glare of the midday sun but once his eyes adjusted and green flecks no longer swam through his visions he returned to Vlindrel Hall, whistling. Argis was sitting at a small table close to the entrance, where light filtered through the roof.

The housecarl looked up with concern when his Thane came closer. "Did he The Jarl keep you this long?"

In his hands he held a paper with a few scrawled lines filling the top third and another one was spread before him. Wulf recognized the flowing, ornate script of a professional scribe and leaned his hip against the table. "Nah," he replied. Igmund just was a sour bellyacher who hopefully would not forget about his Thane's rightful reward and besides, he didn't know how loyal Argis was to his Jarl.

"I went to see Moth about the armour, just like you said."

"And?"

Wulf shrugged, there wasn't much more to it. "He said he'll do it." Then he remembered something else. "You said you wanted to spar."

"Yes." Argis blew on the paper to help it dry quicker, corked the bottle of ink and rinsed his quill. He wasn't one for sitting around apparently, and looked quite eager to take his Thane up on the offer.

"I'll need armour to train in," Wulf remarked to the passing man. His mail of Skyforge Steel was too valuable for the training grounds and this morning he had given his leathers to Moth.

Argis returned with just a set of keys and a two waterskins, handing one to Wulf. "There's plenty in the armoury; I'm sure we'll find something that'll fit you – my Thane."

And here Wulf had hoped he might forget himself once. "As you say, my housecarl," he replied tartly and with a roll of his eyes at the ceiling that Argis did not see because Wulf was walking in front. He waited until the housecarl had locked the door behind them and together they left for the training grounds. A few soldiers were hanging about, some cleaning armour or sharpening blades, others just talking but there was no fighting going on right now. From what Wulf had gathered from his fellow warriors during their trip, everybody was weary after a long season full with skirmishes with the Forsworn and looking towards the respite that winter would bring them.

Argis was greeted by everybody they passed and Wulf received the one or other respectful 'Thane'. Apparently it was contagious. The housecarl led Wulf to a long, low building and unlocked the door, leaving it wide open for them to see in the dim interior. Wulf did not have to be told that this was the armoury. The room was filled with racks and baskets full of weapons.

Argis pointed to the left-hand side. "These are the training blades. You take a look and I'll get the armour."

"Sure." Wulf's eyes were glued to the rows of weapons. He went right past the maces and axes and spears. Sword. He wanted a sword. Even if the spiked flail looked absolutely wicked. Did they actually train with that thing? Wulf looked after Argis, but the housecarl had disappeared into the next room. Wulf tried out a few and they were not bad – quite to the contrary – but they just didn't feel _right_.

"Did you find something, my Thane?"

"No," Wulf replied. "Nothing that's – you know." There were many good swords here, and maybe it was strange to become sentimental over a piece of steel, but a sword was more than a tool for killing. It was what kept you alive.

Apparently the housecarl understood perfectly even without an explanation. Argis rubbed his chin and pulled out a chest that had been gathering dust in the corner for quite a while. And when he opened it Wulf couldn't stop the smile from spreading over his face, or the giddy feeling in his stomach. He tested his grip on a few swords, and swung them through the air experimentally, narrowing down the choices. Lastly he tapped them all against the stone table in the room. Wulf found a blade he liked almost on the spot. It had the right weight and length and he nodded, satisfied.

Argis had been watching him without a comment the entire time, but he too seemed to approve of his Thane's choice. "Ask one of the smiths to forge you a copy. This one ain't a training sword."

He was right. The edge had not seen any grindstone in a long time, but it was far from blunt. Wulf put the weapon away with a sigh. "I'm a bit short on coin at the moment."

"Money is not a problem," Argis replied immediately and Wulf had to compliment him on his neutral tone. "My Thane? You forgot your sword."

"You sure?"

Wulf saw the corner of his housecarl's mouth quirk upwards. Cocky bastard. If he lost a limb, Wulf refused to feel responsible.

Argis held up two other items; a chainmail shirt and a light leather brigantine. The mail was an almost perfect fit, but they had to loosen the straps to the maximum on the chestpiece. It was not quite tight enough to hinder Wulf's breathing or movement, but a close fit nonetheless.

Argis seemed pleased with the choice he had made for the other man. "Thought so," he muttered to himself.

"Which soldier's gear are we just taking?" Wulf wanted to know.

"Mine," Argis answered with a fond look at his old armour that he had kept in a pristine condition. "These were mine, back when I was younger and in the army. Don't fit into them anymore," the housecarl said, eyes crinkling with mirth.

He missed the glare Wulf shot him as he buckled into his own armour.

 

Outside they met Lars and some guard Wulf did not know. "Morning, Wulf," the redheaded soldier greeted him. "How ya feelin'?"

Wulf smiled back. "Splendid."

"Mind if I watch? It's always fun watchin' Argis draggin' tha new guy through tha dust."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence," Wulf grumbled and the redhead grinned at him in answer.

"Ya'll see."

See it Wulf did.

 

They began with a little warm up followed by some stretching. The first few minutes of their spar were easy; their movements loose and neither of them put much effort into their swings. It was still more about getting their blood to flow and finding an inner calm, a focus essential to any combat than about the fight itself.

The two Nords found a rhythm quickly and stuck to it. Argis was a very good training partner. His motions were clear enough that they almost did not need to talk at all. The housecarl took the lead; he indicated his attacks as well as whenever he wished his Thane to strike back. He did not push though, let Wulf test his training sword against his shield and waited patiently until Wulfryk had again found that spot where the blade did not send shocks of vibrations up his arm.

Wulf was the one to break up their first round, because he sensed that Argis would just carry on at this sedate pace otherwise, waiting until his Thane was ready. He was feeling comfortable with his sword at that point and was eager to test his skill against that of his housecarl. The warriors walked back to where Lars was perched atop the low fence and the redhead held out both their waterskins. A small crowd had gathered behind him, the soldiers whispering and nudging each other's sides.

Wulf rinsed his mouth and drank and had Argis make a few last adjustments to his armour where one of the straps was digging into his side. The blond warrior slapped him on the back in a friendly fashion when he was done. Wulf could feel how the tension had seeped out of his housecarl, how he had grown more relaxed and assertive with each blow. He was obviously in his element. But the other Nord's serenity had an edge to it, the underlying readiness to spill blood.

"You ready to fight for real?" As if he had heard his Thane's thoughts.

Wulf grinned back. It wasn't going to be for real, of course, but he still felt the thrill of combat. He had only seen Argis fight once, briefly, and it had been dark with smoke stinging his eyes and his attention focused on their enemy. The Nord was praised by all his soldiers for his prowess, and Wulf was mostly just curious whether the man before him would live up to the tales he had heard.

The dark haired warrior was aware of the beat of his heart, the sweat that soaked into the leather on the hilt of his sword and the way Argis rolled his shoulders before hefting up his shield, giving his Thane a minuscule nod. The one moment of utter clarity was shattered in the next moment when nothing mattered anymore, nothing except for the Nord before Wulf and the naked, cold steel.

The first time they met it was cautious, almost a caress of Wulf's blade against Argis' sword accompanied by a faint rasp of metal. No man wanted to give the other any advantage, reveal too much too early. Fighting was like sex. Intimate. You had to know your partner, find out his reactions to your own actions. Preferably before they had figured you out, then your chances at surprising the other were better.

Even the goal was the same; stick them with something pointy.

Wulf grinned and though he received a raised eyebrow at his obvious amusement, the blond warrior was far too experienced to be distracted or daunted by his adversary laughing at him.

Wulf danced out of the way when Argis struck and angled his shield to deflect the backhanded return blow. The seax that Argis favoured and had several blunt replicas of was a powerful weapon combining the reach of a sword with the destructive power of a heavy axe. It was single edged, but he had the first third from the point sharpened on his seax; so he could harm an enemy on the backswing, should the mere weight of the weapon not suffice to get the job done. Wulfryk had learned to treat training weapons with the same caution reserved for real ones, and not only because they could break bones just as easily.

He retaliated with a low sweep that forced his opponent back a step and kept circling his housecarl. Somebody from the audience whistled loudly, but Wulf paid them no heed, his concentration on the warrior before him who matched each of his steps with one of his own, never breaking eye contact. They exchanged a few blows and separated again. Wulf was holding himself back and he sensed that Argis was doing the same.

This was supposed to be training only, and it was too easy to harm a partner if he reacted in a way you did not anticipate. Wulf shook his head; he was having difficulties turning off his thoughts, something that, thank the Divines, never was an issue when he was fighting for his life.

"How about we stop pretending?" Wulf asked, "Before I fall asleep."

Argis snorted and it sounded like he agreed.

In the next instant he had closed the distance between them and Wulf jumped to the side and kicked out; he didn't like being crowded by warriors bigger than him - only to hit air. Argis had withdrawn again, pulling his leg away in time, but the attack had not escaped him. That was one element of surprise wasted.

Argis didn't give either of them time to recover. He came back in, leading with his shield and Wulf found his way to the left blocked, opting for an evasion to the right. The dark haired Nord almost collided with Argis's shield when the warrior anticipated his move and only instinct made him turn in time to catch his housecarl's blade from the other side. His left open, Argis missed the chance to land the first hit when his shield soared past his Thane's shoulder, the other man having disengaged just quickly enough.

Wulf frowned when he realized he had been led on; a complete turnaround like that could not be a lucky coincidence. Not with a man of his housecarl's skill. For a man of his size and weight Argis was astonishingly light on his feet. And then the blond warrior apparently decided he had had enough. The seax in his hand was a blur and Wulf cursed as he was driven across the field, giving ground with every step. Argis was trying to back him into a corner, herding him across the grounds.

Wulf tried to get away as he had done before, and discovered that he could not, his opponent always one step ahead. He couldn't backpedal fast enough, left-arm growing numb from the blows he was forced to deflect, shards of wood flying through the air as Argis reduced his shield to timber.

But there was only so far Wulf let anybody push him. He stepped into the next attack, in the hope that his change of tactics would take his housecarl by surprise. It worked, insofar as he managed to block Argis' sword with a downward stroke, pinning it – and then his side exploded in a burst of white-hot pain as he received the shield's steel rim fully in the ribs. Wulf staggered back, winded and battered, and the pommel of the blonde warrior's sword soared an inch past his temple, close enough he could feel the air move. But it missed and that was all that mattered.

The housecarl's blade was still pointing downwards though and Wulfryk struck back, letting his sword glide over the topside of the seax, towards his opponent's throat. Argis almost ran himself into the other man's counter, stumbling backwards just in time. Wulf put his whole body into the next attack as he lashed out with his shield, giving everything he had, and more, the ferocious battle cry that Nords were feared for shattering the excited hush that had fallen over the field.

The impact was teeth-jarring, for both men, but did not entirely accomplish its purpose; Argis had gotten his own shield back up, although he was unbalanced for a moment and it cost him precious time, his succession of attacks broken.

Wulf had managed to disengage – but that was all. It was no victory at all.

Of course the Nord had the one or other trick up his sleeve, but he did not want to hurt his housecarl in earnest. This was, despite his bruised ego and ribs, just a game.

"Break?"

"Alright," Wulf panted and wished Argis would sound just a bit more winded.

The housecarl lowered the tip of his sword and came closer, resting a hand on his Thane's shoulder. He looked worried, a small frown between his brows. "How bad did I catch you?"

"Just a graze," Wulf replied and forced himself to relax despite the burning in his side. He did not think anything was broken, and his pride did not allow him to let on that he'd love nothing more than to curl up, moan and hold his side. Now when this was obviously some sort of trial. One he had passed, if he wasn't just imagining the spark of respect in his housecarl's one good eye.

Wulf received an enthusiastic round of cheers from the onlookers and smiled happily. The crowd had grown considerably, lining the outer perimeters of the training grounds. He had never noticed.

"Let's try something else."

Argis wanted to vary their sword play a bit and Wulf agreed to be the attacker in the first round. His housecarl was only allowed to defend himself and retaliate, but not to advance or strike first. Wulfryk spent the next minutes testing out his housecarl's defences, paying heed to how the other warrior reacted, but he had yet to spot a weakness. The obvious move would be to circle and aim for the Nord's blind side, but that was also where Argis' shield was and he was protecting it well.

It was as if all it took was for Wulf to think about making a move when he saw his housecarl's weight shift in answer, often as not before the actual strike. As the fight dragged on, Wulf found himself hopelessly outmatched. At some point he stopped and laughed, head thrown back and sword lowered. He could always play dirty, but that was not the aim of this exercise.

If it had been him standing with his shield up all the time his arm would have fallen off a good while ago. But Argis did not appear to tire. The shield was out and Wulf had no idea how to get past it. Argis never let his sword connect, either. He usually moved out of the way, let Wulf's blade pass before he struck it to knock it further astray. Wulf quickly felt himself tiring, having to always work against his housecarl's blocks that reversed the sword's momentum.

It was not a style suited to a messy skirmish where one did not have the luxury of focusing on a single foe and where the entire field of battle had to be overseen, but it was most effective in a formation where one stood with his comrades, where a blade in the back was not a danger, as well as in a one on one fight. As it would be if Argis ever had to defend somebody. It made sense, for a housecarl.

It also was not the kind of fighting Wulf had done. Most of his encounters had taken place against thugs in seedy dark alleyways or on the road and in the woods, where bandits sprung ambushes and archers tried to take you out from afar; to sum it up: where standing still was one's death sentence.

Argis remained immovable despite Wulf's best efforts to draw him out, to engage him in a more active combat. The housecarl fought as he did everything else; his actions sure and not one was wasted as he stuck to his designate goal.

They changed after a while when Wulfryk grew weary of the one-sidedness of the spar. What had worked for the blonde warrior did not for him, although Wulf didn't allow himself to be coerced into a defensive position like before. He did altogether well, kept Argis on his toes and he could see how it annoyed the housecarl, all the extra work he now had to do because his Thane would not let him close, turning constantly and changing their position. For the first time today Wulf saw his opponent tire and struggle to keep up, the other Nord's attacks decidedly slower and more measured than they had been at the beginning of their fight. He even scored a few minor hits when something brushed by his face.

Wulf came to his senses sitting on the ground, sword still in hand and white spots dancing in the perimeter of his vision. Argis was kneeling beside him.

"You alright?"

"Me? Yes." Wulf nodded, the dizziness already passed. Argis had not hit hard, but in the right place. "My ego not so much. How long was I out?"

"Just a second or two," Argis replied and offered his Thane a hand that Wulf gladly accepted. He cleared his throat, nonplussed and bent to pick up Wulfryk's discarded shield. "Thought you'd get that one," the housecarl said, half in explanation and half in apology and after a moment of thought, "You're good enough."

'Good enough'. Under different circumstances Wulf might have bristled at the words, but given that he had been knocked out and flat on his ass just a moment ago, it might be the wrong time to mouth off. Besides, he was too tired to begin an argument over something that from anybody else would have been an insult. That, and he didn't want to end up being a knot. And crippled one at that.

Wulfryk was all the more surprised when he received a roaring bout of applause from the spectators who had watched the fight.

"Ya did well!" Lars shouted and clapped him on the back, like being knocked out was some great achievement. Stranger still, apparently his friends shared the sentiment. Wulf awkwardly nodded his thanks at a few soldiers who approached him tentatively, offering congratulations.

"But...I lost," Wulf said quietly and began to unfasten the straps of his brigantine. He had to admit to being confused about the whole matter. He'd barely stayed ahead of Argis' attacks in the bout before, he had not been able to break through the warrior's block and the last round had been a total fiasco. Wulf wondered if this was some elaborate joke being played on him.

"Yeah," Lars agreed like he had expected nothing else. "But ya lasted longer than Ian did last year." Then the soldier turned to the blonde warrior who was standing slightly to the side, wiping his face and chest with his shirt.

His armour and padding hung from the fence, to dry in the cold, pale autumn sun and he came over to help his Thane out of his mail.

Wulf waved him off, bent down and planted his palms firmly on the ground, and when he lifted his legs into a handstand, the shirt of chainmail pooled neatly around his hands. Lars' eyes boggled and Wulf grinned. Uncared-for street urchins had a broad repertoire of useless but entertaining tricks; and Wulf was somewhat of a collector of those.

Argis was staring too, but not at Wulf's little stunt. When his Thane was standing again, he pulled one eyebrow up. "Just a graze, eh?"

Wulf's shirt had ridden up, exposing his blue side with a bloody welt almost two hands wide where the metal rim of the shield had pushed into the flesh. Even the riveting was visible, in its black and purple, swollen detail. "You didn't break anything," Wulf replied defensively and pulled the cloth down to cover the bruising. He'd die before he'd let on how much that bitch blow still hurt.

"That deserves a drink," Argis stated and Wulf could only agree.

"Now that you mention it – I'm thirsty."

"Me too," Lars chimed in.

"You can buy your own drink, you lazy piece of _goðr fyr vætr_ ," Argis grunted and dropped his armour in his friend's arms for him to carry while the housecarl took their swords and shields. They put away their gear and Wulf and Argis made a brief detour to Vlindrel Hall to change into clothes that were not soaked in sweat. Lars waited for them outside of the tavern, but not the one Argis had led Wulf to on their first night out.

Lars spread his arms wide, performing a comic bob that would never pass as a bow. "Welcome to tha 'Shed."

"Uhhh… ," Argis sounded like he just had second thoughts. "It's not a fancy place," he muttered somewhat abashed.

Lars did not share any of the housecarl's doubts, pushing the crooked doors wide open. "No worries. Things don't get rough until it's late and everyone's drunk."

"I can handle rough," Wulf replied with no small amount of amusement. Nothing on Nirn could ever top the experience of Trenus' Lost Wench dive bar.

The tavern was indeed plain, but it had the certain well-lived in, welcoming air that beckoned to the Nord immediately. Wulf had learned to find the likes of it, as a visit to an establishment that was mostly frequented by the locals usually paid off. He felt right at home as he took his place at one of the better tables. They were in very good sight of the bar and close enough to the fireplace to be warm without being uncomfortably hot, and out of the way of the general hubbub. Nobody would accidentally spill ale over their heads because he had been pushed. Argis got their drinks, and despite his earlier words he came back with three tankards.

Wulf immediately knew why the inn was so popular when he tried his mead. Honningbrew was a sour swill by comparison to the smooth, rich beverage that held a faint hint of spices. Lars laughed at his surprised face and turned to the warrior sitting opposite them.

"Oy, Argis! I been thinkin'. Maybe Wulf should join tha _Leikrvíg_?

"What's that?" Wulf asked, detaching himself from his mug only for as long as it took him to speak. It sounded grand, so he guessed Lars wasn't covertly trying to get him into some training course.

The soldier responded to his question with a look of disbelief. "Can't believe ya ain't heard of it! Tha spring tournament, biggest event in tha Reach!"

"I want to join," Wulf decided. A tournament sounded like it would be lots of fun.

"Not sure it's a good idea," Argis responded, his gaze locked on the contents of his tankard.

"Why?" Wulf asked, a bit too sharply.

"There are challenges," the housecarl explained, looking up. "You win, you get points. If you have enough of them, you can enter a certain class in the _Leikrvíg_. You are a Thane. If anything, you should fight for the highest _virðing_ – the highest class. But to allow you in just because you are a Thane..." He didn't finish, but shrugged and the motion conveyed what he thought of that.

"I see." Wulf did. He could probably bully his way into the competition whereas the other warriors had worked hard to be accepted. Since he had arrived recently he would have trouble catching up on the 'points'. "How many classes are there?" he wanted to know from Argis who seemed well-informed in the matter.

"Four," the housecarl replied, using his fingers to count them out. "Highest one is for the Champions, _Rekkr_ for the warriors is second _,_ third is for those who seek fame and-"

"And fourth for those who won't find it," Lars snorted.

"Then there is one for the _karla_ , for all men and women who wish to join and can afford the entry fee; an open round so to say," Argis continued smoothly. "There's glory to be had there as well and there's always somebody who is good for a surprise. But you are obligated to start for Markarth; and a double entry is not allowed."

"Hmm." Wulf rubbed his side unconsciously while he thought about all he had been told. "What's wrong with the warriors?"

"Nothin'," Lars hurriedly threw in. "And everybody will know that ya can't fight in tha _Kappi_. Better to fight for tha second than not at all. Plus, if ya make it into the best four, ya'll get a try at becoming a Champion next year."

Argis was nodding thoughtfully at the last part. "We will have to set you up a score table," he told Wulf while Lars turned around and beckoned animatedly to somebody behind them.

Wulf spotted the group of soldiers, and Pike and Theryn amongst them and waved while the redhead left them to join the arrivals. "What does that mean?"

"It means warriors will challenge you. Or you can challenge them. The better they are, the more points it will earn you. If you come to a draw with an opponent, you both lose. If you lose, your score doesn't change, but your opponent gets the point."

Wulf nodded, everything sounded pretty straightforward to him. Issue challenges, win and rise through the ranks. He could do that. "Can I refuse a challenge?"

"If you are wounded. Otherwise it'll cost you points. Halof," here Argis pointed at the innkeeper, "He keeps half of the ledgers for our competitors."

"Only half of them?"

"Of course," the other warrior snorted. "To prevent the other shits from cheating."

"Oh." There went Wulf's hopes of taking the easy way. "Who keeps the other half?"

"The steward. You will have to tell him if you really want to compete."

"Yeah." Wulf was sure. "I do." He had never fought in a tourney before, though he had dreamt of doing so many times. Back when he had been too young and stupid to understand how the world worked. Then something in the way Argis had phrased his sentence caught on. " _Our competitors_?" As in contrast to-

Argis grunted. "We; and I mean you and me and most of the soldiers; we compete for the Jarl, the glory of Markarth and our own honour."

Wulf tilted his head, intrigued. "Who's the rival?"

"The Silver-Bloods," Argis' voice had dropped to a growl, his eyes narrowing. The good one burned with an intense hatred, golden like the flame in the hearth. "They hire mercenaries and support the outsiders, soldiers of fortune and adventurers. They pay the entry fees on loan. Last year they sponsored a man named Atar, he even won the free round. Any man could live for the rest of his live in comfort after that. But now he has to work for them. You know what they say? Sooner the silver veins of the Reach will run dry than you will pay off your debts with a Silver-Blood. Watch out for them."

"I will. Thank you." What his housecarl said bordered on sedition and Wulf was sure he would have made no mention of it if it was just a trivial matter. He would keep the warning well in mind, for once. "So. What do you think? Do I stand a chance?"

Wulf almost felt offended by how long it took before Argis answered. "Won't be easy. You have to catch up on the challenges, but if you can make it into the first round...Yes." He sounded confident. They turned to their drinks for a while, until Argis broke the silence again. "If I may ask, who taught you?"

Wulf gave him a wistful half-smile. "Nobody in particular. Just a bunch of guards. Life took care of the rest." He really did not want to explain what that entailed. Wulf did his best to be of good cheer when he enquired, "Where did I go wrong?" It stung, but if he wanted to get better he'd have to ask somebody to help him get there.

"I think you just need practice," the housecarl replied straight away, this time without having to ponder over the question.

Wulf nodded, he hadn't had much of that lately. Not since before Dustman's cairn. Sure, he had trained a bit with the Companions afterwards, but they had been so overwhelmed with missions, most of the time was spent travelling. Then there had been a brief amount of time when he had, in fact trained, but Ria had not been much of a challenge and Lydia had been forced to stop because of her pregnancy all too soon. What came after he cared to think about even less than his iniquitous past.

"I guess we have plenty of time to work on that." Wulf was giving the other man a gracious way out. The housecarl could always claim his duties to the Jarl, his soldiers and Markarth kept him too busy.

But Argis surprised him by smiling. "We do."

Wulf knocked his tankard against the other warrior's. "Where do we start?"

"When I train most of the recruits," Argis began, "I teach them from scratch. Can't do that with somebody who's been fighting for a long time. You don't follow any style that I know, which isn't a bad thing, 'cause it's effective." He paused for a moment before resuming. "But your forms aren't clean. That can be good or bad, depending on the circumstances. Your balance is good, not many tells. Makes it hard to guess what's coming next. You almost got me with that crazy manoeuvre." He was shaking his head before he was finished.

Wulf sighed and spared a look at the soot-darkened ceiling. "Didn't do me much good in the end."

"That's because if somebody presses you hard, you have to break them early and not wait until you get pushed around and tire. Retreating means you're off balance. Which is why I would begin by building a strong defence."

Wulf nodded in agreement. He had been relying on magic too much to even out the odds. And he had faced exactly the same problem before.

Argis stretched and leaned back and his expression came as close to a smirk as Wulf had seen. "I have to say, I thought I'd get you earlier."

"Well. You can get me another mead," Wulf suggested and lifted his empty tankard.

Argis chuckled and rested his hand on Wulf's shoulder in a way that was just the tiniest bit too tense to be friendly. "I can do that."

 

xxxx

 

They did just as they had agreed, and Argis instructed his Thane almost daily in the training ring. First the housecarl taught the other Nord how not to catch blows frontally but to deflect them, to let the opponent's blade slide right off, and how to control where the deflected blow was going. Wulfryk knew the principles, and he quickly improved, a sure sign that these lessons were nothing new, that the warrior was just refreshing old memories.

They proceeded by finding ways to mess with an attacker by withdrawing or closing in enough that he missed his centre of percussion. If somebody received a proper shock, he could be easier disarmed – if he could hold on to his sword that was. It was tricky, because it involved some guessing and intuitive feel for the opponent.

About a week into their routine, Argis pulled out a couple of Forsworn weapons for them to practice on as well. He was quite surprised when his Thane used the spikes to in his favour, ripping the sword out of his hands a scarce few minutes into their fight.

"The Forsworn are better at fighting with those things than me," Argis admonished, "So watch out."

Wulfryk just grinned, until a new voice spoke up close to them.

"Thane?" The warrior who had addressed Wulfryk bowed his head respectfully. He had a plain face and brown hair, his clothes as ordinary as they could be. "I am Aðalsveinn, and I would be honoured to cross my blade with yours."

"Um." Argis' Thane looked to him, as if for confirmation of what he was to do now.

"He's challenging you," the housecarl clarified. It was bound to happen, sooner or later.

The cocky grin returned to Wulfryk's face within an instant. "In that case I'm happy to oblige."

"Wait." Argis stepped between them and held out his hand. "Sword."

The challenger blinked in surprise but handed his blade over to the housecarl without an argument. Argis inspected the edge and found it had been properly taken down. He grunted his approval and handed the weapon back.

Wulfryk took the opportunity to approach him and quietly asked, "What are the rules?"

"Basically anything's allowed, except for magic," Argis explained while keeping a close eye on the other contestant as he warmed up. "You can kick, but if you break somebody's knee or ankle or maim them in any other way except with your sword or bare hands you're disqualified for this and the next year and will have to pay for their healing in full, so better think twice."

Wulfryk nodded first, then frowned, "If I break his legs with my sword?"

"Go for it!" Argis encouraged. That would mean one competitor less for the actual tourney. "As long as he doesn't surrender, it's his loss. Also, don't flaunt what you can do," the he advised with a subtle nod towards the spectators. "I bet there's a whole bunch of them watching, wishing to seize you up." The housecarl could keep anybody who was not a guard out during regular training hours – these were military grounds, after all, but not during an official match. "The faster you can finish this one off, the better."

"No worries." Wulfryk shot him a smile that was full of self-confidence and strode out to meet his challenger.

A few cheers rang out from the gathered soldiers, and Argis stepped out of the ring, though he remained alert. The other warrior had been courteous enough, but one move beyond what was allowed and he was going to bury his axe in the other Nord's skull.

Somebody had already informed Halof and he as well as another Nord that Argis recognized as Borgulf, a palace guard who would probably report to Raerek straight away were standing as judges. Whoever had set this match up had gone to great lengths to ensure Argis and his Thane learned of it last.

The fight began as most did, slowly, and with both sides erring on the side of caution. It did not continue thus for long, though. Wulfryk took the offensive right from the start, but after a week of sparring with the dark haired warrior Argis knew that his Thane was barely exerting himself. He gained the upper hand after an exchange of blows that was as laborious as it was tedious. The only thing remarkable about the bout was how exceptionally unremarkable it was. Aðalsveinn fought like he looked and none of the sides apparently cared to do as much as move their feet.

It was the challenger's undoing, when Wulfryk knocked him off balance with a blow that wasn't particularly well-placed. He backhanded the other warrior's sword hand and the man dropped his blade with a pained grunt when the metal-enforced wood struck his arm. Wulfryk then brought the match to a swift end with his sword resting against the other Nord's neck.

Borgulf whistled with two fingers in his mouth and pointed towards the Thane, not even bothering to announce the victor. Argis joined the cheering and entered the ring to stand by Wulfryk's side, lest the loser do something stupid.

Aðalsveinn picked his sword up with a sour expression, but the warrior did not forget his manners and gave another short bow before he turned to leave. "Well fought, my Thane." At least he knew how to take defeat.

"Thank you," Wulfryk replied, "Likewise." To Argis he whispered, "That was too easy."

Argis grunted his assent. It was one of the most average, boring, by-the-books fights he had ever witnessed. Inwardly he congratulated his Thane on proving to be such a bland, uninspiring defender.

The housecarl frowned at the retreating man's back and the few onlookers that dispersed now that the excitement was over. He had been right from the start, and hopefully this bout would pacify the opposition, convince them that the Thane was not to be taken too seriously. He would further have to make sure the future challenges would be issued by his soldiers. "This was one of the Silver-Blood men."

His Thane followed his gaze, making a soft _hmm_ sound. "You don't like the Silver-Bloods?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral

"Yeah. And they don't like me right back."

 

That evening they celebrated Wulfryk's first victory in the 'Shed. Many of the soldiers were excited about having the new Thane compete 'for them' and were backing him enthusiastically. Halof went as far as giving Wulfryk a free tankard of a beverage of his choice, a rather generous gesture from the temperamental veteran and Lars was proudly introducing the Thane to his friends.

Drinking was also a good way to kill time. With every day that passed, Argis expected to hear some news from Brigge, but he had been disappointed so far.

"Are you in the tournament?" Argis' hand was on his axe when the man popped up beside him to talk loudly in his ear. The housecarl had to turn around in his seat to be able to look his Thane in the face. The Nord stood leaning against the table and Halof's free mead wasn't the only one he'd had.

"Yeah. Got to be."

Somebody behind Wulf laughed out loud. Lars had come to join them, already well past 'tipsy'. "He makes it this year, he'll be champion fourth time in a row. The best warrior before was Jolsung Bloodblade and he only won twice in succession, some forty years ago, and returned five years later to win for a third time."

"So you're defending your title," Wulfryk mused, followed by, "What does the champion get as a prize, anyway?"

Argis wished Lars had managed to keep his yap shut, not something that happened often. He twirled his mug between his big hands, uncomfortable with the topic, because there was no way for him to avoid such a direct question and wasn't a liar. He cleared his throat. "Forty thousand Septims"

Wulfryk lost his balance and fell over, but he caught the table's edge in time to pull himself up again and stared at his housecarl with wide eyes and an open mouth. "Talos' balls!"

"What's the total prize money?"

Argis sighed. It wasn't like he had held onto the money, putting almost all of it into better equipment for his soldiers. "About a hundred thousand Septims," he responded. "It's a wager between the Jarl Igmund and Thongvor. The one whose champion loses, pays."

Wulfryk whistled and squatted on his heels, his chin resting in his crossed arms as he blinked up at his housecarl. "No wonder they don't like you."

Argis did not bother replying. He knew how much his actions had hurt the Reaches most influential family, and it was a matter of more than what amounted to the loss of roughly a million in gold. But the past could not be changed and he regretted very few of the choices he had made. As long as he could keep it and the assassins away from his Thane, all would be well.

An hour or two later the celebrations were coming to an end, the party winding down with some of the participants passed out on the benches. Soldiers would take anything as a reason to get shitfaced. Wulfryk was yawning into the crook of his elbow and though eyes were glazed he appeared to be rather steady on his feet – compared to some others.

Argis picked up both his and his Thane's coat when he heard Halof call his name. "Argis!"

The housecarl paused and waited for the other man to catch up. He noticed that the innkeeper's limp was more pronounced, and he was breathing hard. The veteran's hand landed heavily on his forearm.

"A messenger has just arrived. It's Rolf and he says it's important!"

"Are you coming?" Wulfryk called with an impatient gesture of his hands towards the door.  

"I'm sorry," Argis apologized to his Thane and handed him his coat. "But something just came up...I might take a while longer."

"Sure," Wulfryk replied easily and swung the garment over his shoulders with a flourish.

"My Thane-"

Wulfryk cut him short. "Good night, Sunshine."

Lars who had come over in the meantime and was wobbling drunkenly on his feet slung one arm over Argis' shoulders for support. "I don't," the redhead hiccup there, "I don't think he likes when ya call 'im that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More bonding, but life's been keeping me busy enough lately that the last thing I want is action. And they are doing rather well, aren't they? No one drowned or lost a limb.
> 
> *Did you know that 'agis' means 'awe' or 'terror' in Old Norse? Me neither. On another note; who calls his child that!?*


	16. Chapter 16

The next day the sky was a light aquamarine blue with only wisps of clouds caught in the high peaks of the Druadachs; white crowns for the equally white mountaintops. Where he sat in a nook in front of his old house, the sun-warmed stone radiating heat at his back, Argis was warm enough in only a sleeveless vest. True, he was well hidden from the occasional gust of wind that made the wilting flowers overhead dance wildly in the breeze and their late petals rain down on him, blood red drops the only splash of colour against the blinding white of Markarth's masonry.

Argis drummed his fingers on the rough wood of the old bench and two shapes pounced at them, bumped into each other and skittered back into their hiding place behind the wood. The third kitten was still viciously attacking his shoelaces, getting them tangled into an ever-larger knot. Argis picked it up by the scruff of its neck and held it up. The creature meowed pitifully and tapped the housecarl on the nose. He'd make a good mouser one day Argis thought and deposited the little rascal next to its siblings, only for the three of them to tumble to the ground.

Argis smiled at their frolics, their clumsy gait, short crooked legs and bristling tails raised high and let the tips of his fingers peek over the benches edge, three pairs of white-socked feet following. The new owner of the house had complained and threatened to drown them in the river. Argis had asked him politely if he wanted the housecarl to return the favour. He had not heard as much as a word of protest since, and Prowl continued to live in the wooden box Hákan had fashioned for her with her litter of four.

The proud mother was lying stretched out in a sunny spot, enjoying the break from her four little rascals, ears and tail twitching lazily.

Argis let his head sink against the wall and closed his eyes, the light and heat making him pleasantly drowsy, for he had been up long into the night yesterday.

 

"Oi!" Wulfryk had been gone for a whole twenty seconds and Argis' second had barely made it through the door before Lars was already choking the life out of him. "Rolf! Ya alright?"

It took the flustered man a while to disentangle himself and Argis scooped up the mug of spiced mead Halof put down on the table and ordered a hot tea for his friend instead. Rolf didn't take well to alcohol. He could get as shitfaced as he wanted to and Argis would even help him get there, but _after_ he'd completed his report.

"How did it go?" he asked when Rolf's face no longer was the shade of a ripe plum and Lars was giggling to himself in the corner seat.

The soldier rubbed the palm of his hand over his unshaven chin, but managed a tired smile. "Like you planned," he said and, already used to his commander's quirks, quickly got down to what he knew had to be driving Argis insane. "We lost five men – two recruits, Hran and Aletta from the first unit died in battle and Torgeir from his injuries and there's a score or so injured, but only a few critical ones. We were lucky. They weren't expecting us and we cleaned out the camps." That was about as far as the good news went, the Argis could tell by his expression alone. "It was...nasty," Rolf continued and all the cheer drained out of him, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. The housecarl could barely hear his hushed voice over the din in the tavern. "They had women and children."

Argis patted the other man on the back. He knew how bad things could get, but orders were orders and sparing the enemy only meant that this conflict would drag on for so much longer.

"Fuck, I hate killing kids," Rolf choked out with a wet harsh sound, not quite a sob but not quite a curse either. Something between the two and there really was nothing Argis could do or say to make it better. But Rolf was not a man given to depression. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath, visibly collecting himself. "Anyway," he said, "Brigge wants you to know we found out about of one of their winter retreats."

Argis took the offered change of topic and didn't push. They all felt like shit after one of those missions, but it was nothing time, mead and friends could not cure. He'd been there, and so had Rolf. "Where is it?"

"To the south of Markarth," the other man replied, calmer now that he could focus on something else. "The prisoners we interrogated called it the 'Dead Crone's Rock'."

"Could they mean the Hag's Rock?" Argis asked. He knew of the valley, and that said place was overrun by the Forsworn. Now that the soldiers had been successful it was the closest encampment to Markarth they had. But sheer distance was meaningless in the Reach, where the land was divided by mountain ranges which conveniently kept the city safe and prevented the Forsworn from moving in greater numbers.

"I don't know," Rolf answered. "Truth is, we really could have used you and your reputation. The sons of goats didn't want to talk, but Brigge thinks there might be more to it. Maybe he's gotten one of them to spill the beans by now," he said. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."

"Ah, sod it." Argis took a deep swallow from his tankard while he turned the situation over in his mind. He saw that Lars had falled asleep with his head pillowed on his arms and was drooling on the table, and snorted. "We can't attack the Redoubt," Argis said and his friend nodded in agreement. "It's too defensible. But... ," the housecarl began and paused, because he already didn't like where this idea was going. He didn't, however, have a better one. "If we cross the mountains, we could come up on them from the east."

"Yeah, but we won't _make_ it over them in time," Rolf pointed out. "Frost Fall is coming to an end. If the weather breaks while we're crossing, we're done for."

"You just came back," Argis reminded him softly. "You deserve some rest."

"I can rest just fine while we wait for the others," Rolf argued sullenly.

His friends were a gift from Akatosh himself. The housecarl did not know what he had done to deserve such loyalty, but after so many years Argis knew that he couldn't talk them out of following him if they insisted on being such pig-heads. "We can't take too many with us. And with not enough soldiers we can't fight."

"So what do we do?"

"We get a few people together and see what this Dead Crone's Rock is," Argis decided. "Either way, the Forsworn will be stuck there, and if they think we don't know about them, they'll stay. It's not like they can move in winter. And we only need to cross the mountains once. If the weather changes, we'll simply take the long way back. Following the river should take us close to that Orc stronghold. Then, once we're back, we can make plans for the spring campaigns."

"So it's just scouting, then?"

"Looks like it," the housecarl replied thoughtfully.

"What do we tell the Jarl?" Rolf asked. If he had sounded relieved earlier, it was gone now.

Argis finished his mead and rested his hands on the stained surface of the table, fingers interlaced. "Your job is to find us a guide crazy enough to brave the passes this late in the year," he closed the matter for tonight. "Let me worry about Igmund."

 

He still had not decided what he would tell the Jarl. First he needed to talk to Brigge. While loyal to Igmund, everything the Jarl heard would also, through servants and guards gossiping, whispers in the dark and ears pressed against cracks in the stone where they shouldn't be, inherently make its way to Thongvor.

Sometimes not knowing was the Jarl's greatest advantage against the enemies he did not know he had.

Argis would, however, have to tell Wulfryk. He'd just come out with the news in the evening over dinner and a mug of his homemade mountain pine spirit, when his Thane was at his most agreeable. That he could devise this tactic was a testament to how much time they had spent together lately. Most of it training since Wulfryk habitually slept in until midday. At least the other Nord was almost always game for a spar. He might grumble and complain when Argis got him to work out, but he kept up with the housecarl, competitive to the point where the training only ended when one of them broke down with cramps. If they kept it up, then that someone might become Argis. The warrior grinned at the thought and flicked a kitten's tail, making it whirl around and attack its unsuspecting littermate.

And then there were the evenings in the Hall, a house that had been too big and empty for one man but was beginning to feel just a little bit crowded with two and Argis honestly couldn't say what disquieted him more; how easily he had grown used to his Thane's company, or how often he wanted to strangle him with that stray sock that Wulfryk just couldn't be bothered to put away.

Thinking about Thane didn't make Argis' small, wistful smile wilt like a flower in the first frost of Ysmir's Breath, but if his heart beat that bit faster, he was willing to attribute it to anticipating Wulfryk's less than gracious outburst when he learned he'd have to cross a mountain range in winter.

 

xxxx

 

Wulf had been aimlessly strolling through the twisting alleys around the lower quarters of Markarth for most of the day when the idea struck him to check in with Moth to see about his armour's progress. He took the less direct route through the market and up the river that ran through the city. The water looked as beautiful as it had to be cold, a luminous turquoise in colour, in the upper parts where the filth from the smelters had not yet been washed in. Wulf wondered why all the terraces were built on such high pillars when the stone channel wasn't even half full, but before he could contemplate that peculiarity in more detail, somebody called out to him.

It was no other than Ghorza, Moth's sister, who - according to herself - was much better at working with light materials. She was happy to show him the sketches and the beginning of what would become his armour and then took a few more measurements before Wulf left her to her work.

Rather pleased that he wouldn't have to climb all the very steep stairs from here up to the keep, Wulfryk decided to venture further into a part of the city yet unknown to him on his way back. He slipped into a narrow alley to put a row of houses between him and the waterfront and ambled along it, keeping the river to his right. It was rather easy to get turned around in Markarth if one didn't pay attention to one's wandering feet and in every cliff there were stairs that led up and a couple of times Wulf had landed on somebody's front porch when he came to an unexpected dead end. The last time it had happened an elderly woman, flattered by the Thane's unscheduled appearance, had promptly poured him a cup of camomile infusion and they had sat on two chairs that barely fit on the miniscule patio, overlooking the haggling of merchants below, and talking about the weather, mostly.

This time it was the glint of sunlight that made Wulf's head turn on impulse. A man sat in a secluded spot between two houses, bent forward and with his elbows resting on his knees. His shield had reflected the light and as Wulf took another step, the side street opening up, he caught a glimpse of dirty blonde hair in braids framing a face he couldn't see because the guy was looking at something in the other direction. Wulfryk impromptu took the turn. A moment later he recognized the motif on the shield and grinned because he had known the Nord's muscular arms looked familiar.

It was a nice location Argis had chosen, a small stream flowing through its shallow bed on the street's edge.

Behind the housecarl there was a low house over which the wooden galleries of the two-storey buildings on either side towered. The result was a cozy, secluded niche and the house was close enough to the pier that Wulf was sure its windows overlooked the river and Ghorza's waterwheel. The sound of water – falling, churning, gurgling, was ever present. Soothing, if one did not mind the constant noise, but it certainly was more idyllic than listening to Mulash abuse his workers.

Argis looked as if he belonged there, picking tiny claws out of his legs. As luck would have it, Wulf approached from the left, but his presence was announced when a tabby cat hissed at him and, following their mother's lead, her kittens bristled like brushes before they scattered as fast as their legs could carry them, colliding in their hurry to get away.

Argis looked after them with a frown then shrugged and smiled up at his Thane. "They're a bit wild."

Wulf raised an eyebrow at the housecarl. "I did not know you liked cats." After all one of the larger ones had whet its claws upon the man's face.

"It's good to have a mouser," Argis replied with a shrug and scooted over to make room for Wulf, who sank down on the sun-warmed bench with a sigh of contentment. "What are you doing in these parts of the city?"

"Exploring," Wulf answered and tried to make it sound as daring as he could.

Argis chuckled and in his fashion did not comment. The burden to carry the brunt of the conversation did, as was its wont, lie with Wulf, but by now he no longer even minded. Argis' grunts and monosyllabic answers were something he had grown accustomed to. It had been over the course of the days that followed their first spar that Wulf discovered the most fascinating thing and, in the same instant, found an answer to why his housecarl always was so brusque. He was not unapproachable or standoffish, he just _did not like to talk_.

 

Wulf had read out loud a book he had been pawned by a local drunk to make up for the man's inability to pay the debt he owned Wulf over a rigged game of cards. Wulfryk felt particularly magnanimous that day because the man's pathetic efforts at cheating – six aces, really!? – had been almost as entertaining to watch as it was to take out the game's other participants.

Argis had been dicing what was to become their dinner. He was as focused on the task at hand as he was on everything else that he did, be it fighting or repairing his gear, and he neither looked up nor commented until at last Wulf gave up on trying to evoke a reaction from his housecarl and proceeded to read in silence. When he next chanced a glimpse in Argis' direction, it was because the other Nord had stopped chopping up innocent vegetables.

Knife in hand and half the carrots still intact, the housecarl's piercing gaze was trained on his Thane. "Go on."

"I thought you weren't listening," Wulf replied defensively.

A furrow appeared between Argis' brows. "I was."

"Well, you never said anything."

Argis huffed and gave the knife a spin, its tip drilling into the wood underneath. "Isn't that the _point_ of listening?"

"If you put it that way... " It kind of made sense, too. Wulf glared at the book in his lap and asked, "Where did I stop?"

"Faloan was bargaining away his heart and soul," Argis said and then cited, " _Thus was brokered to the witch: his heart, his will, his humanity_." He had been paying attention.

More so than Wulf who, feeling a faint flush in his cheeks, cleared his throat and continued. After a brief moment the sound of Argis' knife hitting the wooden cutting board commenced.

 

Wulf remembered the satisfaction that came with the realization and the hope that maybe the other Nord saw something more him than a useless encumbrance. He'd done his best to keep up in their fights and had even managed to get the upper hand a couple of times, but he could already tell that Argis was far more dedicated to his housecarling than Lydia had been. Wulf was sure he wouldn't be rid of the man if he told him to leave. Not that he wanted to do that. Argis wasn't a conversationalist, but the sight of his naked, sweating chest when they sparred more than made up for that particular character fault.

"What earth-shattering matter kept you up yesterday?" Wulfryk asked and tried to think of something other than chest hair and all those heavy muscles, and how they would feel under his hands. Sweet Dibella, but he needed to get laid.

"One of my men came back," Argis replied. He had the look of a man about to say something Wulf wasn't going to like and true to that observation Argis announced, "The Jarl will want us out one last time before winter."

"Dammit," Wulf cursed and scratched his chin before something inappropriate about Igmund could slip out. At least the topic was enough of a mood-killer to put any stray dirty thoughts of the man next to him right out of his head. "How much time do we have?" he asked, resigning himself to the fact that yet again he would have the joyous experience of traipsing through Skyrim's idyllic winter landscape.

"Until the soldiers come back and give me a full report," Argis answered. "I guess we've got about a week to kill."

"Better it than me." Wulf stretched and winced; his stiff muscles were still aching from their last workout. Or maybe it was the one before or... perhaps they had all stacked, one atop the other, in one giant heap of soreness that he was now enjoying the full effect of. "I think you did me in last week. Several times." When he caught his housecarl giving him the once-over, Wulf winked.

"You're awfully chipper for someone who's supposed to be dead," Argis remarked, deadpan.

Wulf took the bait. It wasn't often that his housecarl initiated banter, but it was happening more frequently now. "Dead and decomposing, if you want to know," the dark haired Nord stated and turned his face upwards, to better catch the sunlight. He closed his eyes. "I do take joy in the fact that it's of my own free will, not because _the Jarl_ told me so."

Argis chuckled. He had a dark sense of humour, Wulf had been pleased to find out. "Hey." The blonde warrior nudged his Thane's knee with his own. "It could be fun. You ever climb a frozen waterfall?"

"No. Neither have I ridden a horker sidesaddle," Wulf retorted and cracked open one eye. "Just because I haven't had the opportunity to do something cretinous and possibly hazardous to my health doesn't mean I'm burning up for the opportunity to do so."

Argis was quiet for a moment, then, "I smell bullshit on that, my Thane."

"Yeah." Wulf grinned. It sounded awesome. "Can you really do that?" he asked eagerly. "Climb a frozen waterfall? Seems rather im–... improbable." Since the comeback of dragons he had sworn not to taunt fate any more than was absolutely necessary to keep up with his image. His new dashing, hagraven-slaying, Forsworn-fighting, tourney-competing and shield-retrieving Markarth image, not the one he had left behind in Whiterun.

"Sure." Argis appeared excited at the prospect.

The idiot was going to kill him. Wulf just knew it. Yet here was, grinning at the prospect, when he should visit the healers and have his skull checked for fractures. "Aren't you supposed to keep me away from danger?" he enquired and then quickly rephrased his question. "Or keep the danger away from me, as it is?"

Argis gave a noncommittal shrug in answer and didn't seem worried over the thought of his Thane's impending untimely demise.

"If you get me killed before my thirtieth nameday I'll be very cross," Wulf remarked because he simply couldn't allow the silence to set in now, not when they were going along to well. This was amongst the longest talks they had shared.

The blond warrior sat up a bit straighter at the news. "When's that?"

Wulf was surprised, but also slightly flattered by the serious expression on the other man's face. It was... nice, he decided. Having somebody who cared, or at least appeared to. "Why, Sunshine, you got something planned?" It wasn't that he didn't want to tell Argis, he simply didn't know. Sometime between this winter and the next he'd be older than he ever thought he would be and on top of that he couldn't figure out how to feel about it.

What he _did_ know was how that had just sounded. And if he could hear the pitch in his own voice, he was sure Argis did as well. Flirting was all very nice, though not quite as much fun when the other person did not reciprocate. "So, how did it go, yesterday?" Wulf enquired, hoping to distract the housecarl from his blatant advances.

The change of topic had the desired effect of immediately sobering Argis up. "We lost three people that I knew," he replied quietly. "Not well, but... by name. I visited their families today."

"Shit." The word was out before Wulf's brain caught up to his mouth. "I'm sorry." This was awkward. He swung his legs, banging his heels against the wall behind them.

Argis sighed deeply, shoulders heaving. "It's alright." He looked away and when after a goodly while he turned back to Wulfryk, his expression was serious. More so than when they had been discussing dead comrades.

_Uh-oh._

"Look, I want this to work out."

"What's 'this', pray tell?" Wulf asked guardedly. Apart from being something he did not want to discuss, obviously.

Argis' laugh was a bit too sharp to be amused. "Fuck if I know." He made a vague gesture with his hands. If they had been playing mime Wulf's guess would have been anything from a hog to the empress' corselet. "The whole _thing_. With you and me."

"If this is some weird Reacher proposal, at least have the decency to buy me a drink first," Wulf muttered in an attempt to lighten the mood and because this sounded so very much like having a chat about relationships – which he wasn't doing, by the way – that he immediately wanted to kill off that particular exchange.

To his surprise and immense relief Argis didn't take offence, but barked out a laugh that seemed to take the housecarl as much by surprise as it did his Thane. "Nah," he said after a while, still chortling. "I'd need the priests of Stendarr before the year is out."

"Justice? What for?" If Wulf was confused, it was the other Nord's fault.

"Not justice," Thane Wulfryk," Argis clarified. "Mercy. For your poor, doomed soul, full of indolence, disorder and dirty laundry."

That hurt physically, but was Wulf laughing too hard to care. It reminded him of the time he had four broken ribs and Thrynn had just kept the bad jokes coming until he'd been laughing and crying both up to the point when he could no longer tell whether it was from the teasing or the pain. He'd passed out eventually, with the other man's hand in his pants. Shit. Those were some memories Wulf hadn't revisited for almost a decade.

He cast Argis a beaming smile over his shoulder and hoped the other man had not noticed the lapse.

"So." Apparently Argis was not easy to dissuade. That, or he was totally oblivious to clues. "Is that a _yes_?" The housecarl's lips twisted into a wry half-smile. It had something self-mocking about it, but scars and disillusionment aside, it was also damned alluring.

"It's a _maybe_ ," Wulfryk sniffed and swallowed past the sudden tightness in his chest. "At best."

 

On the morning of the next day Wulf watched Argis repair the hilt of his training sword. The housecarl was tearing away the old crumbling leather while his Thane paced restlessly, wondering if he could worm his way out of training without losing face. He'd been only half-joking yesterday. 'Dead on his feet' was not the ideal condition for Wulf to be in when they headed out of Markarth to combat whatever Skyrim deigned to throw at them next.

Wulf came to a stop suddenly, remembering an offer he'd been made shortly after his – arguably – unfortunate rise to Thanehood. He let his chin rest on Argis' shoulder, if only because he enjoyed watching the other Nord jump. He had to keep the man on his toes, after all. "What are you doing?" Wulf asked as if he had not been right there the entire time.

"Working," Argis replied with what probably was supposed to be a meaningful, sideways glance at Wulf. He didn't shake him off, but the tone of his voice indicated that maybe he wasn't entirely happy with the violation of his private space.

Wulf couldn't care less. This was a not-so-subtle revenge for all the beatings he had taken in the training ring and he took his sweet time before complaining. "I'm bored."

The housecarl put away his sword slowly. "Do you want to spar?"

"No," Wulf replied and poked him in the side for good measure. "I want you to entertain me. What do I own a housecarl for?"

He was rewarded with a heavy sigh before Argis turned to face him. "Is there something you would like to do?"

"Have you ever been to the Dwemer Museum?" Wulf wanted to know, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"I don't think there's a person in Markarth who has not been to the museum," the housecarl said.

Wulf was glad to notice he sounded amused rather than cross. "Well, there is _one_ ," he pointed out. "And Aicantar has agreed to give me the tour of the place. Want to come?"

For a while he wasn't sure what the other man would reply. Then Argis shrugged and got up, forcing Wulf to take a step back. "Sure."

They found the Altmer in Calcemo's laboratory in an out-of-the-way part of the Understone Keep, pouring over old documents. The young scientist appeared relieved at the opportunity to escape his uncle, the Jarl's court mage and a man known for the research he did on the Dwemer, and not his patience.

Aicantar grumbled about his uncle all the way to the museum and Wulf must have made all the appropriate noises because the Altmer refused to shut up until they stood in front of a set of metal double doors that were guarded by two very bored soldiers.

Aicantar stopped and pulled a golden key from his pocket and then turned to the two Nords. "Alright, here we are," the scholar announced. "It's my pleasure to be your guide, Thane Wulfryk. These aren't regular hours, so I don't need to tell you to please speak softly. However, I must insist that you don't touch anything." Hits gaze swept over both men.

Argis grunted in what might pass for consent.

"Why?" Wulf asked.

"Because it's probably valuable and – or – dangerous, plus there's no telling what my uncle will do when he finds out that one of the exhibits got damaged," Aicantar rattled off, sounding as if that was a speech he was used to giving very often. He then, without waiting for an answer, unlocked the doors and pushed them wide open, beckoning for his guests to step into the next room.

Wulf had to admit it, the museum was rather impressive and not just for the fact that somebody had actually gone to such lengths to collect this much junk _and_ that the Jarl had dedicated a part of his keep to store said things. Not that he did not believe the Altmer when he said the things kept here were of high value, they simply also happened to be completely useless.

Aicantar began his tour with a short lesson on the history of the Dwemer and their civilization, and ended it with their mysterious disappearance from Nirn. Then the scholar led his guests to the showcases. Ancient, fragile books and scrolls filled the first one, their contents faded until some could be barely made out.

"A preserving spell keeps them from crumbling into dust," Aicantar said proudly and then continued, "I admit, they're not the most interesting part of the collection, unless you happen to study the subject. It is a pity we have so few; a lot can be learned from such accounts." He sighed theatrically and couldn't resist adding, "If one knows how to decipher their contents."

Wulf almost poked at the glass cabinet before he remembered he wasn't supposed to do that and just pointed at the volumes instead. "Doesn't your uncle ever read them?"

"I'm pretty sure he knows these by heart," the Altmer joked. "There even was this one time he insisted on cooking a traditional dwarven meal and ended up making us both sick. He has made progress with the language since; we wouldn't want to repeat the poison mushroom incident."

Wulf snorted and Aicantar grinned. He was remarkably level-headed for a scholar and he answered all of Wulfryk's questions, and without being the slightest bit snobby about his companion's utter lack of knowledge about the Dwemer and their metal constructs. He also had funny anecdotes about most of the exhibits that he visibly enjoyed sharing.

Wulf decided that he liked the Altmer. When he looked back to Argis, who preferred to trail behind the other two men, he saw his housecarl listening with his head cocked. Maybe all this wasn't what the regular visitors were told. Argis appeared to be looking around with interest and returned Wulf's smile, a sure sign that he wasn't the slightest bit bored, because the Nord never bothered with putting up pretences.

They passed more display cases, full of dwarven kitchenware and weapons and whatever else Calcemo had salvaged of their ancient, extinct culture.

"How did you come by all these?" Wulf asked their guide when he was finished admiring what he had learned was a 'spider worker'.

Aicantar chuckled nervously. "I try not to think about how my uncle got all the parts," he admitted. "Especially the Centurion." He pointed at a giant metal warrior that stood on a platform, right in the middle of the room.

Wulf didn't have to ask what that automaton was for, because the big hammer and crossbow gave away its purpose of a machine of war at first glance.

"You blow them up," Argis supplied helpfully. "Knock the red spinning thing with the stone out of them and they're done for."

"Ah, the core," Aicantar said while Wulf stared at his housecarl in shock. "It contains the soul gem that powers the Centurion. You did some field work with my uncle, did you not?"

"Helped the crazy bastard clear out his precious excavation site," Argis muttered.

Wulf wasn't sure the Altmer even noticed the slur.

"You have been to Nchuand-Zel?" Aicantar asked with envy. "My uncle wouldn't let me go with him," the wizard whined and received a consolatory pat on the back from the housecarl that almost knocked him over.

"He's right, kid. We lost ten hirelings and a whole crew of diggers down there," Argis said. "You stick to your books; you'll live longer."

Aicantar might have protested against the housecarl's opinion of him as a helpless, wee mer, but at the same moment he caught sight of Wulfryk, who had used their guide's distraction to his advantage. "What did I say about not touching anything?"

Wulf's retracted his hand like he had been burned. "Sorry." He smiled in apology. "Couldn't resist." As soon as Aicantar had his back to him, he continued to twist the tiny, well-oiled screw.

Argis saw something fall off the statue and a look of pure panic on Wulf's face before he caught the metal part just in time. Their guide turned and Wulf's hands went behind his back and Argis almost received a dwarven sphere's arm in the crotch.

"Is that a ballista?" his Thane asked promptly, pointing to the far side of the room.

Predictably, Aicantar looked over, a small frown marring his high brow. "Yes, as a matter of fact, it is." He set out for the section and Wulf stealthily handed his prize to Argis and hurried after the Altmer.

The housecarl studied the arm for a moment, thinking about using it to slap some sense into his Thane, and then, with a quiet chuckle, let it slip quietly into a basin with water that already had a myriad of coins glittering at its bottom. He quickly went around the section dedicated to the Falmer and caught up to the others to marvel at the walking ballistae that, thank Akatosh, he had been spared from experiencing firsthand.

"Do none of these actually work?" Wulf asked towards the end of their tour. He had to admit, it would be very disappointing to find out all these were just decorations.

"Well." Aicantar stepped from one foot to the other, seeming eager and reluctant at the same time. "Oh, I guess it can't hurt," he finally decided and briskly led them to the back of the museum where he unlocked a solid door with a different key. "I have been doing some research of my own." The scholar was talking fast in his excitement. He almost jogged through the corridor and to a cubicle on the left side of the room where he opened yet another door. "Welcome to my humble workplace," he said distractedly and turned a full circle. "Now, where is it? Ah, here it is." The Altmer pulled out a long staff with runes engraved all over it from a corner. It lit up under his touch, and then–

"Sweet Talos!" Wulf breathed when a spider crawled from under the table, its legs clicking against the floor.

"I know," Aicantar practically squealed. "It's fully functional and– "

"Can you make it tap dance?" Wulf interrupted, crouching to get a better look at the spider.

"I don't think-"

"The Whittleclod!" Wulf spoke right over the Altmer's protests. "Make it dance the Whittleclod."

Wulf's stomach was cramping from laughing so hard by the time Aicantar's spider perfected the fool's dance and was maniacally prancing around the laboratory with astonishing grace and sheer endless energy. The Altmer had sunk on a stone bench in the corner of the room and even Argis needed to brace himself against the table.

"Now, that's what my uncle would call a waste of resources," Aicantar chortled. He sounded winded and wiped a stray tear off his cheek. "And I think I ruptured something."

"You know, Wulf told him dreamily when he helped the scholar to his feet, "You could make a fortune performing with that that thing."

One day, when the whole affair in Whiterun had blown over, he was going to take this automaton to Jorrvaskr. Wulf did not for one moment think that a magic metal spider toy would mend any broken relationships, but he bet that Farkas' kids would _love_ it and that alone would be worth it.

 

xxxx

 

Apart from the visit to the Dwemer museum the rest of the week passed uneventfully. Argis and his Thane took a break from their training because they needed to be in top form when they set out again, and spent most of their free time preparing for the journey ahead of them.

Brigge's company returned on the morning of the fifth day, the soldiers marching through the massive portcullis of the city gate in neat rows of eight men. Because the wounded had to be carried their going had been slow. One more man had died on the way back, and the other injured ones were taken to the priestesses of Dibella for healing.

Argis cornered Brigge the moment he caught sight of him.

The other Nord took off his helmet, running fingers through his grime-streaked hair. "We missed you out there," was the first thing he said to the approaching housecarl.

"Rolf told me the fighting went well," Argis replied, worry gnawing at his insides.

"Considering how much worse it could have gone," the man answered sourly and dropped his pack. Brigge hated doing actual field work. "I need a bath," he announced and stretched. "And because I know you won't give me a moment's peace to get one," he continued, "I need a drink."

"Man up, you sissy," Argis told him with a negligent shrug and slung the other warrior's pack over his shoulder. He needed a detailed report and any maps Brigge might have, then they had to work out what to tell Igmund and finally he had to find men willing to accompany him and his Thane.

 

Now, a day later, Argis had only the one most dreaded duty to perform.

'Good morning' and Wulf were two things that should never share a sentence. Waking him was about as joyous a task as poking a hagraven. Argis took a deep breath before he shook the sleeping man's shoulder. Wulf came to with a startled curse and an unhappy grumble and only tried to stab his housecarl twice.

Argis took away the fork before his Thane scored a lucky hit and managed to wedge it in his thigh.

"I hate you," Wulfryk mumbled into his pillow.

"Can you hate me and get dressed?" Argis asked. "Because we need to go."

"Now?"

"M-hmm," Argis hummed in affirmation. "If you make it in five minutes there'll still be breakfast left.

"What's for breakfast?" Wulfryk was always more agreeable when his stomach was full.

"Come and see for yourself," Argis told him left without answering the question. He'd find out soon enough and the housecarl had learned the hard way not to rush his Thane.

"Porridge." Wulf let his spoon drop back into his bowl, splashing some milk on the table and shot his darkest glare at Argis. "I _hate_ you, Sunshine."

 

Ten minutes later they were walking through the busy morning crowd to meet with the other lucky four souls who would go with them and who had better be waiting at the gates. Argis didn't see Thonar's dog until he almost knocked into him. He regretted the man taking a step back, because it would have been most satisfactory to knock his shoulder into the bastard and send him sprawling onto the gutter.

"Couldn't get rid of him like you did your last Thane?" Yngvar sneered with a sideways look at Wulfryk, who had stopped at Argis' side. "Well, good luck this time. What did you do again– ?"

"I watched the useless, stuck-up twit get smashed to pulp and danced a fucking jig around his corpse," Argis forced out between clenched teeth. Not even he could get away with killing a man in broad daylight for a slight that many would agree he deserved for Bjorn's death. "Which is _exactly_ what I'm going to do to you."

"Hey, robin!" Wulfryk snapped his fingers at the drunk Nord like one might at a real dog and the other man's bloodshod eyes wandered from Argis to his Thane and finally fixed on him. "I'm right here, you know." Then his icy blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're a bard, right?" he asked slyly. "Appreciate a bit of poetry?"

"Sure." Yngvar grunted and took a long dreg from his tankard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done. "Whatever." The warrior released a thunderous belch and turned away from them, ready to head back into the inn. What he had not expected, was for Wulf to call for everybody's attention.

People first stopped to gawk, then ambled closed, and Argis saw the one or other curious guard amongst the growing audience. Good.

"Here's a verse to the man who thinks I'll let him insult my housecarl," Wulf announced with a flourish that earned Yngvar a few hateful stares.

"Let's hear it!" somebody shouted. The Silver-Blood hireling was far from a popular figure.

Wulf cleared his throat and Argis suffered through a moment of uncertainty when nothing happened except for the dark haired Nord counting something out on his fingers. His lips were moving, but he made no sound. A few onlookers shifted, growing restless and Argis' hands tightened into fists. This wasn't something he could fight. Wulfryk had begun this, and if he didn't conclude it, and soon, he'd be the one looking like an idiot.

And then his Thane grinned at Argis, winked, and began.

 

_There once was a blustering Robin,_

_Out on the street, drunkenly bobbin',_

_Figured himself a singer,_

_He went by the name of Yngvar._

 

A few spare chuckles were heard when Wulfryk paused to draw breath. Argis quietly released a penned up breath. It wasn't half bad for something his Thane must have pulled off the top of his head.

 

_He liked ale and he liked blood,_

_Thought he was a manly stud,_

_Sadly, the ladies liked him not,_

_So a hagraven's all he got._

 

Now, that was better. Argis guffawed with the rest of the audience, amused by the verses and, above all else, by the expression on Yngvar's face. But Wulfryk wasn't halfway done with the guy.

 

_On the morrow he did recover,_

_Next to him saw his lover,_

_Remembered a night of passionate kissing,_

_And discovered that his balls were missing._

 

By now Wulf's audience had warmed up to his performance and he received a round of boisterous laughter, and applause. Yngvar was whistled at, and the bright red splotches on his face did not improve his complexion one lousy bit.

 

_Which is why he peeps so high,_

_Makes his poor audience cry,_

_When he shut ups it is bliss,_

_Yngvar, let me tell you this:_

 

_Shove some silver up your nethers,_

_Warble till you grow some feathers,_

_Pull your head from Thongvor's butt,_

_And sod off, you half-goat mutt._

 

"Thank you!" Wulf shouted over the roar of the crowd. He bowed and blew Yngvar a kiss. "And thank _you_ for the inspiration!"

A local drunk by the name of Cosnach actually cheered for more.

Yngvar's hand was on his warhammer, a sneer twisting his face into a grimace. He gave the tankard he had dropped earlier a kick that sent it fling and stepped forward.

"If he attacks me it is perfectly legal for you to kill him, right?" Wulf pointed out in good cheer, laughing along with the rest of those who were oblivious to the tension underlying the situation.

"Right." Argis grinned. "It will be my pleasure."

Yngvar must have had the same thought in that instant because he stopped so suddenly he looked like he had run smack into an invisible wall.

"Oh, come on," Wulfryk taunted. "My housecarl's looking for a bit of a thrill."

Yngvar surprised them all by not rupturing a blood vessel and dying on the spot. With a string of curses the mercenary disappeared back into the inn, to – as Wulf put it – drown his last shreds of dignity, and the guard began to break up the gathering.

"You've made an enemy," Argis remarked quietly, glaring at the sign that said 'Silver-Blood Inn'.

"Aye." Wulf grinned. He looked proud of himself. "But now I'm famous. Did you like my sonnet?"

Argis shook his head, but he replied, "You have the soul of a true poet. I could almost taste the bitterness of your heartfelt loathing."

"Thank you." Somehow the warrior sounded more sincere now that he was no longer performing for a crowd.

Argis did not need anybody defending his honour, yet it felt good to have his Thane care enough to do so anyway. Not because he thought that Argis needed the help, but because it was what friends did for one another.

"Come on, let's go." He put a hand between Wulf's shoulder blades and began to steer him towards the city gates. The day had just begun, after all. He was sure there was plenty of excitement yet ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't like Yngvar. I don't like the Silver-Bloods. And I hate how the native people of the Reach are treated in Markarth. But I don't agree with the Forsworn either.
> 
> Sorry for the immensely late update. Life has been crazy lately. I also had to get an idea for DA out of my system. *cough*
> 
> Since a few people voiced concerns, let me put them to rest. This is and will remain my main project and if I ever have to stop writing, I will NOT leave you hanging, but tell you.


	17. Chapter 17

Wulf caught sight of Lars' red hair as soon as he spotted the group of soldiers who were to accompany them. The others were waiting for them next to the stables, which, curiously enough, smelled like a brewery. He did not know any of the other people and already missed Pike and Theryn and their good-natured banter. Argis made for rather one-sided conversation, but as if to make up for it, Lars almost never shut up.

Lars waved at them as they approached and introduced Wulf to his best friend, Rolf. Rolf was tall but rangy for a Nord, lacking the bulk of most of his countrymen. His brown hair was gathered in a tail at the nape of his neck and he had a plain, long face, thin lips and a beaklike nose that slanted slightly to the left, having healed badly after probably more than one break. Rolf stood slightly slumped as if he wished to make himself smaller and leaned on his longbow which was braced against the top of his boot. The bow looked more like a staff than an actual bow and probably could be used to bludgeon an enemy to death if the need ever arose. Wulf was afraid to even estimate the draw weight of the thing.

The next soldier to make up their merry little band was a short Nord who barely reached Wulf's shoulder. He kept his bloodshot eyes shaded with one hand and looked like his headache might kill him any moment. With what he had in him, Wulf guessed he could nurse that hangover for another two days, at least. The man introduced himself as Dom.

"Dom?" Wulf repeated.

"Dominique," the soldier explained in a resigned tone. "Father's from Wayrest."

A Breton then, or half of one.

"So, we have an archer and, Lars, you can be out entertainment," Wulf said pointing at each of the men in turn.

"What does that make you?" the redhead muttered while Rolf shot curious glances between his friend and Wulfryk, apparently not quite sure what to make of this situation.

"That's easy," a new voice joined in before Wulf could answer. With the woman coming to stand next to Rolf they formed a complete circle. She had a colourful headcloth wrapped around her blonde hair and freckles peppering her nose and cheeks. "Argis is the muscle. He," here she indicated Wulf, "Can be our beauty. Which, unsurprisingly, makes me the brains." She grinned at them and extended a hand for Wulf to shake. "I'm Sigrid, Thane. I saw you serenade Yngvar. Good on you!"

"Ooh, my first admirer," Wulf replied in a singsong voice. "You can fawn over me all the way. I might even allow you to carry my things – for a while."

"Yeah, you'll fit right in, alright," she replied with a laugh and hefted her own pack higher.

The sentiment brought a goofy smile to Wulf's face. "So you can be either the packmule or the emergency rations," he remarked to a dour Dom.

"M'good with magic," Dom answered, the words running together. "Sorry, Thane. Not feeling very well."

"Ya, don't go lightin' any fires before ya sober up," Lars cautioned him. "Last thing we need is ya blowin' yar stupid arse up."

"He'd go up in flames like a distillatory," Sigrid chuckled, then clapped her hands together. "Alright, everybody. South Cliff Pass it waiting for us. We'll camp under the rock and see what tomorrow brings. Weather looks good enough for now, but I'm not taking any chances this late in the year. Any questions?"

"How long is it going to take us to cross?" Wulf asked when nobody else had any.

"Two days. Arkay knows a lot can go wrong in two days," Sigrid said with a worried glance at the sky.

"What if we cannot make it in time?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "Not my place to tell." The soldier turned to lead the way and the others followed her.

All except for Argis, who fell into step besides Wulf. "I don't think even Igmund expects us to cross the mountains in winter. No point worrying about it now, is there?"

"Oh, I wasn't worried," Wulf said flippantly. "Except for missing out on those frozen waterfalls you promised me."

Argis chuckled softly and replied, "Be careful what you wish for."

They did not say anything else after that. Wulf watched the countryside as they followed the main road away from Markarth. He spared some thought to the cobblestones under his feet, worn smooth with the passing of time. Each block was perfectly fitted and larger than a single man could carry. Another relic of the Dwemer, Wulf realized when he stumbled over an uneven patch where the original paving had been repaired much more crudely.

Wulf enjoyed walking alongside his housecarl. The other man's stride matched his own which made for easy marching. Their entire group travelled relatively light. They still needed tents and snowshoes and warm clothes, but everything that could be spared they left behind. Wulf wore the chainmail shirt and leather brigantine Argis had given him for training. Since their first spar they had made a few adjustments to the chest piece and now it fit Wulf like a glove. He hoped Argis would let him keep it as a second set, because getting new armour worn in was a pain in the ass and he already had the prospect of doing so with the one he had commissioned from Moth to look forward to.

For an hour the Karth was to their right, roaring and with white foam caps forming on the rapids. Whenever a particularly strong gust of wind blew, it sent a cold, wet drizzle their way. Wulf ducked his head and pulled the collar of his cloak up. There wasn't a place in the Reach where one wasn't one stone's throw away from a river, he mused, glad when they came to a junction in the road. They took the right fork that led them to the Left Hand miners' settlement.

When Wulf asked how the place had gotten its name, Argis only shrugged.

There was only one road through the village, but before they could reach the end, Sigrid turned left. From there on they followed no trail that Wulf could discern, circling around the mountain range that lay to Markarth's south. Wulf knew they were going to climb to the top, but he had not expected the mountainside to become this steep so very soon. Standing as upright as the terrain allowed he could almost touch the ground with his hand.

The going was slow and arduous while the peaks above taunted them with their deceptive closeness. At midday they made a brief stop to rest and eat in a place that had obviously been used for the very purpose before.

Argis was tending to the fire and their meal while everybody else stretched, or – in Dom's case – was lying motionlessly on their back. The housecarl had tied his mane of blond hair into a sloppy ponytail and wrapped a triangular kerchief the colour of rust around his head. His braids were spilling out of the sides, and more strands joined as the wind picked them out, one by one.

Wulf was talking to Lars, his legs stretched out before him. "How did you come to join the army?"

The redheaded soldier shrugged and finished chewing on his piece of hardtack, swallowed and replied, "There wasn't enough work back home fer all o' us. Ma and Da couldn't afford ta feed nine hungry mouths all by their selves."

Wulf choked on his meal and when he was done coughing pressed out a weak, "Nine?"

"Aye," Lars confirmed with a nod. "So I left. Turned out ta be tha right choice. Got me some good friends I wouldn't exchange for all tha turnips in Karth's Hollow," he said with a grin. "Bein' a soldier's tha right thing fer me. Wish it included less marching, tha," he added with a piteous look at their guide.

"Just eight more hours," Sigrid remarked cheerfully.

Wulf already knew that it was a grave insult in the Reach to imply that a person had goats as ancestors, and so he did not ask, although he suspected there was a distant relation here, maybe even cousinship, with how easily she had skipped along the nonexistent track.

The break was over all too soon, and Argis approached his Thane with something colourful clutched in one large hand. Wulf saw that it was a cloth like the one he was wearing, only in blue.

"What you did for me today, it was nice," Argis said, sounding slightly abashed and not looking Wulf in the eye. "I- thank you. Here." He offered the cloth. "I want you to have this."

Wulf took the gift, wrapping it around his hand. "Aw, that's sweet. Now we get matching ones."

Argis recoiled like Wulf had hit him in the face. "You don't have to wear it," he remarked brusquely. "But keep it with you. When we cross over the snowfields, tie it over your eyes."

"Right," Wulf said to the blond warrior's back, confused. Wulf didn't hate feeling as if he had done something wrong half as much as he hated not knowing what it was he had done wrong. As far as he could tell, he had accepted a gift. If Argis didn't want him to have it, Wulf had his own cloth that could serve as a blindfold.

They continued their ascent in single-file and nobody had breath to spare for talk. Maybe that was the reason why his housecarl remained quiet for the rest of the day.

Wulf sighed and tied the kerchief around his head. Now the wind no longer howled in his ears. Markarth wasn't as windy as Whiterun had been – unless you happened to be in a place like here, where the rocks happened to channel the wind. He had eight hours and nothing to do but pant, sweat and enjoy the view Argis' shapely, albeit grumpy ass.

 

They did not stop again until nightfall, and then only because they arrived at their destination at the very foot of the cliff. Their camp was quiet, dark and cheerless. Nobody bothered with actually raising their tents properly; they just crawled right into them.

To Lars' great disappointment Rolf was sharing his with Sigrid. "Naw, man! I thought we was friends!" the redhead called and received a round of snickers in answer. "Least ya could do is share– " the ball of snow caught him full in the face.

Wulf heard laughter and then Sigrid and Rolf disappeared into their tent.

"I want myself a woman like that," Lars sighed, poking at the earth with a short stick. "She's got to be a warrior. Tough, but also soft in all tha right places." His eyes closed dreamily.

Wulf wished him good luck with finding his dream girl and left the soldier to brood over his fate – or to fall asleep right where he sat. Argis barely stirred when the tent flap opened to let in a gust of cold air before Wulf closed it again. He remembered to kick off his shoes, but the rest was darkness and confusing dreams filled with more hiking.

 

It was still fully dark when Wulf was shaken awake none too gently.

"Mrahk dijssz vaeziz- "

Wulf pressed his face harder into the ground to escape the touch when somebody ruffled his hair, but cracked open one bleary eye when the same someone pressed a hot piece of toasted bread into his hand. It was topped with dry-cured ham, wild chives and molten cheese on top. Wulf smiled sleepily and took a bite, chewing slowly. Argis knew him too well.

When he mustered the energy to get up and pack, his housecarl was uncurling rope. The length of it was wound around his arm and he was laying it out in loops, checking the rope for damage.

"Anything I should know beforehand?" Wulf asked, feeling a bit left out; eager and also anxious. He knew the tale of their victory over the Forsworn camp had spread, but he still felt like he had to prove himself. Wulf didn't like having to prove himself. He knew he could pull his own weight and that was all that counted, but he was also out of his depth here. Everybody else worked together with an ease that came from familiarity and it made him stand out all the more.

"Yeah," Argis told him, cutting off that trail of thought, and good riddance. The housecarl's strange mood from yesterday appeared to have blown over and he was back to his pensive, deadpan self. "Don't fall."

"Ha, ha." It came out as flat as a mouse stomped to death by a mammoth. Wulf didn't have the energy to bother pretending.

"Here." Argis showed him how to wrap the rope around his waist and shoulders with clear instructions to never step on it.

They ate and bundled up their bedding and tents, and set out again. Mountain 'climbing' wasn't what Wulf had imagined it to be. Mostly they followed a steep path that he could barely make out. There were plenty of stretches where he had to hold on with his hands, cursing when small pieces of loose stone fell away from between his fingers. Slipping would lead to an unpleasant if quick death on the rocks hundreds of feet below and though Wulf had always figured himself a good climber; that was without eighty pounds of backpack messing with his balance.

From time to time they had to rid themselves of their packs and actually scale the cliff. Argis usually went first and pulled the bags, which now also contained their armour, up.

When they found a good place to rest, Wulf and Argis waited for the other four soldiers to get further ahead of them so they wouldn't get stuck in one of the trickier places if the person in front of them encountered some difficulties.

It was during one such stop when somebody from further above yelled, "Rock!"

Wulf instinctively looked up, but before he could make out anything other than a dry, splintering sound from higher up, Argis had an arm around his chest and hauled him towards the wall. There were no protracting stones overhead to provide safety, and the housecarl's grip on his bicep grew bruising. Wulf caught sight of a flash of movement, and flinched under the spray of gravel and chunks of broken rock that rained down on them when the stone bounced off the mountainside and continued downwards in an unpredictable zig-zag.

"Are you alright?" came the call from above.

"Yes," Argis bellowed back, and Wulf heard the answer passed on,

"They're fine!"

"We should wait a while longer," Argis said and Wulf did not answer, simply enjoying the other man's steadfast presence. He did not think his housecarl had acted out of a sense of duty; that flash of fear in his eye had been all too real. It felt oddly heartening to know that the man cared about him as more than just his responsibility. Wulf would have to remember to tease him about it later.

Nothing exciting happened through the rest of the day. Despite knowing they'd be in deep trouble – or rid of all of them entirely – if they had been hit, the rockfall had happened and was over again so quickly, Wulf had never truly been aware of the danger. As the sun neared the horizon, however, and the light took on a golden glow, he grew restless. They were still not within sight of the top.

Of course nobody had told him they were to bivouac right in the cliff, on a ledge less than half the size of Wulf's bed.

It would have been enough for one man to lie down, but not for the two of them. They'd have to sleep sitting up. When Wulfryk voiced his feeble protest, Argis had laughed and asked if he had expected an inn up here. Wulf's glare was spoiled by his eyes falling closed and his retort turned into a yawn. He felt only marginally safer when Argis tied them to the cliff and huddled against the rock at his back. When he closed his eyes, breathing deeply, he discovered that he definitely could fall asleep like that. The Nord forced his eyes open again to see Argis wipe his face with his headcloth before he tied it again.

"Uh, want to change places?" Wulfryk knew how edgy being on Argis' blind side made the man and whilst under normal circumstances that could be fun, Wulf didn't want to get kicked off the cliff in the middle of the night. Not that he wanted to take flying lessons at any other time either, but the dark made the prospect of tumbling down into the abyss scarier. Then again, he wouldn't see the ground rush up to meet him.

"It's fine when I know you're there."

It took some finesse and planning for the warriors to change out of their sweaty clothes and into fresh ones. Their packs dangled beneath them and only one of them could move at a time and not much at that. Bit by bit they managed to spread out Wulf's and Argis' bedrolls for both men to sit on. Wulfryk had a hide to cover his legs and he tucked it in around himself to close any crevices where the cold draft would blow in. Argis tossed his sabrecat pelt to cover them both.

They ate a cold meal and watched the orange disc of the sun set behind the distant hills and the first stars twinkle in the darkening skies above. Wulf's head nodded against his chest. He was tired, his muscles ached and his hands were bruised and bloody, his nails cracked. He was feeling high on the success of having come this far and warmth spread from his side where he leaned against his housecarl.

"Argis?"

"Hm?"

"Does housecarling include double-duty as your Thane's pillow?"

"I think today it does," the warrior rumbled sleepily. There was no telling what he thought of that. Argis' smiles, few and far in between, were lopsided things, and usually no more than a twitch of the corner of his mouth. The scarred side was mostly expressionless or slow to respond.

Wulf let his head sink down on Argis' shoulder and shifted to make the position slightly more comfortable for his back. He could feel Argis' pulse against the bridge of his nose and his eyes closed of their own accord. All that remained was the sharp smell of the cold breeze and the earthy rock behind and underneath them. Warm skin and sweat and a hint of the herbs Argis used to keep in satchels with his clothes back home.

A moment later he felt Argis' head come to rest on top of his.

 

Wulf woke up stiff and sore and with a nasty crick behind his right shoulder blade. He had a minor panic attack where his heart skipped a beat upon seeing the gorge that opened up before his feet. He wasn't afraid of heights, but he didn't want to contemplate the precarious position he had slept in any closer. Maybe it was a good thing he'd been dead beat yesterday, because it meant he had been also too tired to care. Wulf wasn't sure he would have gotten any sleep otherwise.

He and Argis called out a 'good morning' to the other members of their party and listened to the echo of their replies. They watched the sun rise while eating a cold breakfast and then it was time to set out again.

There was no possible way to warm up and so Wulf moved slowly and cautiously, not trusting his weary muscles. Argis did not rush him, but still they reached the snow fields long before the sun did its zenith. From there it was a hike of another four to five hours to the top of the mountain.

The Nords all bound their eyes to prevent snow-blindness, strapped on the snowshoes kept walking, changing the marching order frequently. The person in the lead had it worst and the last one easiest. Wulf kept his head down and focused on taking the next step only, remembering his hike up the slopes of High Hrothgar.

He was so lost in thought that he bumped into Rolf when the procession stopped. They had followed the mountain ridge for how long he couldn't say, but when Argis pointed out the peak from where they had set out this morning, it was further in the distance than he believed possible. Before them the glacier created a large bowl where the ground sloped gently downwards before it ended in a narrow ravine, flanked by high towers of stone on both sides.

Sigrid was standing with her hands braced in the small of her back, her face turned towards the sky. "I think there's a storm brewing."

The sky was blue with barely a cloud in sight, except for on the horizon where they were rolling against the mountains like the boiling sea against a ship's bow.

None of the other men asked their guide of she was sure though, and so Wulf did not either. He knew that this far up a change of weather announced itself early to those who could read the signs, but when it actually happened, it did so within minutes.

"Only one thing ta do," Lars announced, rubbing his hands eagerly. To Wulf's questioning look – at least Wulf attempted to make it questioning, though he did not know if he succeeded with the cloth wrapped around his head – the redhead answered, "We shield-sled down the slope."

Sigrid nodded and Wulf did a double take.

"What about avalanches? Or crevasses? Or the possibility of a messy death on those rocks there?"

"Eh," Lars waved a hand, shield already in hand. He appeared untroubled by the grisly picture Wulf painting. "If it can't end messy, it ain't fun."

"That's what I always say," Wulf replied, wide-eyed. "But usually I'm in bed with some gorgeous hunk and not talking about ending as a red stain on a rock."

They were pulling his leg. Had to be. Except that everybody was shrugging off their packs. Sigrid was poking at the ground, one foot out of her snowshoes. "Snow's old here," she announced. "Nice and firm."

Wulf turned to his housecarl. "Wait. This actually is a thing?"

Argis grinned, but it was Sigrid who answered.

"Unless you want to walk all the way down, freeze your pants solid and get your shoes full of snow so they'll be wet and cold, yes." She shrugged indifferently. "Not to mention missing out on the fun part _and_ being caught in a snowstorm because we won't make it down in time."

"Alright, alright." Wulf raised his hands to fend her off. He could already feel the grin tug at his face. This was madness. He actually looked forward to it and guessed it was proof enough that Nords were certifiably insane. No other peoples tended to get as maniacally gleeful about their looming deaths.

Lars was the first to go, rocking to get good speed. Rolf went second and he did fine too, until he was too small a speck in the distance to tell. It couldn't be that bad, Wulf decided and took his turn, sitting on the shield and pushing off with his legs.

His slide went well until the bloody thing beneath him began to spin and pick up speed until the rest of the world was a blur, the wind howling in his ears and bringing tears to his eyes. There was no stopping, and no steering, and it was the single maddest, funniest, out-of-control thing Wulf had done in his entire life.

Or so it seemed at the moment, when he found himself slowing down and Lars waved at him wildly and he couldn't believe had survived.

There was a lurch and he almost busted his nose against the ground when he fell off his shield. Wulf skid a few more feet and came to a stop when he dug his heels into the ground. To his left rocks were poking through the snow, signifying the end of the snowfields. Wulf stood up and attempted to take one step, and fell flat on his ass, his head spinning. It was like being drunk, only cheaper than Hulda's mead.

"Sweet Talos! I want another go," Wulf decided.

Lars and Rolf laughed. "I told ya! Best thing- "

Where the three of them had stopped, Argis' greater weight still had him going strong enough to barrell into Lars on his way down. The redheaded soldier was lost in a spray of white and Wulf let himself fall back, laughing. He was feeling the surge of elation; an almost frantic giddiness that took hold of him.

Until Lars threw the first snowball. And then there was no stopping the battle that ensued. Another ball of snow exploded against Wulf's shield which he had managed to pull from the snow and which looked no worse for the misuse. He peered over the rim in time to see he was being tackled by his housecarl. Then Argis' arm was around his neck and Wulf just managed to get their legs tangled up. They both went down, laughing and trying to pour snow down the other man's collar.

Wulf saw Lars shoot Dom off his vehicle with one well-placed snowball and the soldier flipped down the last stretch, head over heels. When he got up, cursing, and swearing revenge, Wulf noticed that the Breton was the only one whose lips had a slightly blue tinge to them.

Sigrid arrived last, the only one who appeared to have a measure of control over her descent. She received the snowy initiation just like everyone else and emerged to duck Lars back into a drift, cheeks flushed red. Argis helped Wulf up from the depression they had rolled into and beat the snow from his coat.

Up close Wulf could see the contrast between his ruddy skin and the pale scars that crossed his cheek, and that Argis' eyelashes were frozen and he had the sudden, crazy urge to kiss the other man.

He clamped down on it vehemently and turned away with a sharp intake of breath and his heart beating harder in his chest than it had during his sled. Damn, damn, _damn_.

Thankfully the blond warrior did notice his strange behaviour, because when Wulf got a hold on himself, the other man was talking to a worried Sigrid. A glance up confirmed that half the sky was now grey and the wind seemed to be picking up.

"How far is it?" Rolf asked with a frown and tugged his hood over his head.

"Not far," Sigrid answered, "But we better hurry."

They did, running and skidding down the slope until their guide found what she had been looking for. Wulf would have missed the squat stone structure, hewn into the rock and built from debris, if Sigrid had not led them right to it. The first fluffy flakes of snow were spinning through the air by then.

The safehouse was tiny, dark and smelled none too pleasant, but it had been built for the very purpose of weathering storms by the scouts who watched the passes around Markarth during a greater part of the year. The soldiers used a tent to seal up the entrance and the others as a protective layer which they spread their bedding out on. Then there was nothing to do but wait until the storm had blown over.

In the tiny space the oil lamps gave off enough heat warm up the air and Rolf had had the forethought to bring cards. They played and nibbled on the rations and listened to the wind howl outside. Wulf fell asleep sandwiched between Argis and Dom and woke up to see his housecarl poking his sword through the doorway. It was almost entirely dark inside the safehouse, until Argis' seax broke through the snow and a ray of sunlight illuminated the gloomy interior.

It took a while until they dug their way out, but the spirits were high because the hardest part was behind them. They only had to reach the bottom of the valley now and follow it for the next couple of days. Finding the Forsworn retreat was a challenge for another day.

When Wulf crawled out of the stone hut, the ground was almost two feet higher entire landscape had changed from grey and brown to white.

"We made it just in time," Rolf remarked, wiping his forehead in a gesture of relief.

"Mhmm," Sigrid hummed with a look towards where they had come from. "There's no going back this way, now." She took the lead again, and Wulf marvelled at their fortunate timing of crossing the mountains on the last day such a feat was still possible and to find shelter minutes before the storm hit them with full force.

Wulf did not thank the Gods for it; they had a developed nasty diversion of tripping him up. He felt queasy all through the morning – until a surprised shout made him look up. One of the soldiers lost his footing and slipped a couple of feet, falling into a hollow by the wayside. A second glance revealed it to be Dom, who, despite the soft landing he must have had, was clutching his leg and swearing.

Argis dropped his pack and slid down to where the man was lying, soon joined by Rolf who was carrying a part of the medical supplies. Wulf watched from the path, not sure if he should join them.

Dom moaned loudly. "Fuck my life."

"Are you drunk?" Argis asked in a quiet, but deadly serious voice. He was crouched next to the soldier.

"I wish I was," Dom hissed, and when Argis looked like he might deck him one, "Fuck! No! I know better. We were all together. Search my things if you don't believe me," the man grunted.

Over his harsh breathing Wulf heard Sigrid whisper to Rolf, "How is it even possible to break your leg in this much snow?"

The archer just shook his head.

Wulf turned his attention back to what was going on below. "Anything I can help with?" he asked warily.

"Have you got anything to drink?" Dom forced out through clenched teeth at the same time Argis shook his head in answer to his Thane's question.

"Ya've had plenty," Lars reprimanded the injured soldier, sitting on his chest while Argis removed his boot.

"This'll hurt."

"Not." Dom bit down on the leather that was shoved between his teeth. "Nut snce Mrkrth."

Suddenly Lars' eyes went wide, and he shouted, "Mountain lion!"

He was good; Wulf's head wasn't the only one that shot around. Argis used Dom's distraction to set the leg. The crack and resounding yell, followed by a veritable waterfall of profanities would have scared away even the toughest, hungriest predators.

"Do we use a potion?" Rolf asked when the screaming died down.

"Well, I'm not fucking carrying him!" Argis rumbled unhappily and Wulf felt a stab of pity for Dom who looked like he wanted to sink further into the snow to escape the housecarl's anger.

Rolf pulled out a small red vial and Wulf realized how liberal the Companions had been with the healing draughts.

Argis handed it to the wounded man and growled, "You fucking idiot. Drink," he ordered. It was such a stark change from yesterday, when he'd been happy and relaxed and laughing.

"What do we do now?" Rolf asked while Lars helped Dom rise to one foot and hop up a few steps so the man could sit down where the redhead could bandage the leg, using two wooden sticks from his medical kit to form a splint. "He'll heal, but he can't walk like that."

Argis ran his hands over his beard and face. "Let me think." When he let his hands fall again, he shook his head. The warrior looked resigned. "There's nothing for it. Find the next valley that leads out of here and take him back."

"I'm sorry," Dom said meekly from his perch, his head hanging between his knees.

The housecarl heaved a huge sigh. There was sympathy in his voice this time, not anger, when he said, "It's not your fault."

"What about you?" Sigrid asked the warrior who in turn looked at his Thane.

Wulf was feeling spectacularly useless so he offered his healing magic to Dom. It was better than just gawking. "Do you know the way?" he wanted to know when he was finally done, because Argis was beginning to look restless.

"Yeah. We won't be crossing any more mountains, either, so we should be fine. The only question is: do you want to go on?"

"Not particularly," Wulf replied, thinking of the comforts of Vlindrel Hall; the hearths and bath and his bed. "But I want to explain myself to Igmund even less."

Argis nodded once in agreement. "Then let's get going."

"Now?"

"Yeah. Still got a long way to go."

They said awkward farewells to the rest of the group and the housecarl stalked away to retrieve the pack he had dropped before.

Lars was nervously twisting a piece of bandage between his fingers when he approached Wulf. "Ya'll watch his back, will ya?"

Wulf assured him that he would and the Nord seemed satisfied with that. He hurried to catch up with his housecarl when he saw the blond warrior had already started out and kept a few paces behind the other man.

A little further down the way Argis stopped with his thumbs hooked into his shoulder straps. "Do you ever get the feeling something's working against you?" he asked suddenly.

Wulf thought of the chest currently lying beneath his bed and what it contained, and swallowed. Whatever it was, he didn't think it was playing with them now, but he had to get rid of the blade as soon as he could think of anything. He'd rather not be in the middle of a second Whiterun disaster.

"Yes." He wished he didn't know what that was like.

 

xxxx

 

"Did you actually get a say in who was going to be your Thane?" Wulf asked out of the blue.

They had run down the gravelly slopes of the mountain and then the rest of the way down. Argis knew he was going to feel his legs on the morrow, but thankfully they had arrived at the bottom of the valley that should lead them to the Hag Rock and, he hoped, Dead Crone Rock. Without further incident, if he had a say about it.

"No," the housecarl replied, using the peaks of the mountains for direction. He had been here before, but not recently. The way led them over a desolate landscape, a rock-strewn riverbed where the only colour came from tufts of grass that sprouted between the stones. Dead trees littered the gorge, a testimony to the destructive force of the river during snowmelt. The men stepped over a few of the stream's smaller channels and continued downstream, searching for a way to cross without getting their feet wet.

"That seems rather unfair, considering you're stuck with my luminous, accomplished and altogether gorgeous self," came Wulf's reply. "Unfair to everybody else, that is."

Apparently Wulfryk had put the recent events behind him and given up on being grim for the day. He was back to his usual _charismatic_ , if annoying self.

The dark haired warrior hopped from stone to stone and Argis half-wished he'd slip and fall into the icy stream, but to his disappointment Wulf made it across safely. The housecarl decided it was as good a way as any and followed his Thane's lead, slightly slower and with more caution. He used a stick he had picked up among the debris for balance until they stood on the same shore.

"Full of yourself, aren't you?" Argis asked, tossing his staff back into the water and watching as the current carried it away.

Wulf nodded. "Unfortunately. I could be-" Then his eyes grew wide in a look of childish excitement "Is that a mudcrab?" It came out almost as a croon.

Argis turned his head, and had to blink twice until he could make out the shapes Wulf was referring to. Before he could answer, Wulfryk had dropped his backpack and picked up a slim twig. Argis watched in disbelief as he approached the feeding crabs and crouched down behind them. Crab-fishers usually had the one or other finger missing and the big crabs could snap the bones of a grown man. These ones were smaller, their carapaces flat and smooth, almost indistinguishable from the grey stones of the riverbed.

Wulf poked the first crab with the twig and the housecarl decided to let him learn the painful way. It was the only way with promising long-term-effects. The others would die laughing if they caught up to them on their way to Markarth because the Thane's hand had been bitten off – by a mudcrab of all things.

The crab spun around with a click of its pincers, its stalked eyes looking for the source of disturbance. Wulf used his branch to tickle it and laughed in delight when the crab attempted to grab the twig.

"Hello, Mr. Pincers."

Argis sometimes played with Prowl the way Wulfryk did with the mudcrab. The other Nord let the stick trail over the ground and the crab went after it with a furious clicking sound, legs sending the smaller pebbles skidding. A second crab soon followed the first, and before long Wulf had four of them walking circles around him.

"You seem to have found your true calling."

Wulf grinned up at his housecarl, but remained otherwise motionless. Maybe that was why the crabs ignored him. After a few more minutes, Argis' Thane tossed the twig away and it landed in the water with a soft splash. Three of the crabs followed. The last one was too slow and got snatched up. Wulf turned it over and slapped its underside and Argis saw six legs curl up before the crab went perfectly still, pretending it was dead.

Wulf tossed the crab from one hand to the other while walking back to his housecarl, and gave it as little spin, not worried about the proximity of the pincers to his hand at all. "We used to catch them on the beach of Lake Rumare," he said softly. "Always got a few coppers for them."

He hefted the crab higher so the blond warrior could get a good look at its underside. It was about as ugly as the rest of the crawler.

"Looks pretty dead, eh?" Wulfryk asked with a grin and waved one of the pincers in Argis' face. "Sometimes I threw them in the bag like this. Takes a while before they'll move again, so the mongers couldn't tell who had brought them the live ones. The screams when one of them reached inside were hilarious." He flipped the crab over and tossed it back into the water.

"If we're ever starving out in the wilds, your crab wrangling skill might become useful," Argis remarked.

Some people claimed that mudcrabs were a delicacy. Argis had tried the meat once and found the crab tasted exactly like its namesake. He wanted to ask how it came that his Thane had collected crabs in the Imperial City to scrape together a few coins, but he did not. He knew he wouldn't get a straight answer out of the other man.

Instead of the happiness from a moment ago, the housecarl saw a wistful look cross his Thane's face. It was gone as soon as it had come, and just like the sun coming from behind the clouds, Wulf was smiling again.

"Let's go, hm?" He picked up his pack again and shouldered it, tugging his black hair out from under the shoulder straps.

Argis followed with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt like he had intruded on a private moment of joy and somehow ruined it with his presence.

 

When night fell, the two Nords pitched their camp amidst a grove of small, twisted juniper trees. Argis rolled slightly to the side to make space when his Thane crawled into his bedroll.

There was a moment of silence, then Wulf stretched out and groaned. "We are downhill."

"No, we aren't."

The other man would be able to hear the glower in his voice even if he did not see it. They had turned the tent three times already and after the last time Wulfryk had been satisfied with the result. He'd forfeit the right to complain.

"You gotta tell me," Argis began because he did not want their conversation to end on a bad note. He was also genuinely curious. "How did you become Thane? All I know is that Jarl Igmund sent you to retrieve his father's lost shield and gave you the title when you were successful."

Wulf turned to lie on his side, facing his housecarl, with one hand under his cheek. Argis could just make out the whites of his eyes in the dark.

"Eh - he did?  I should have paid closer attention then," the other man replied. "Would you believe me if I said I tried to sell it as a piece of dwarven scrap metal?"

"To whom?" Argis asked.

"Calcemo."

"Ah."

"The guards told me he'd buy everything of Dwemer make and for a good price at that. So I decided to try my luck. Landed before the throne before I could finish my offer."

Now that Argis' eyes had adjusted to the darkness he could make out the other Nord's eyes were half-lidded. "It's an honour," he said because the words felt like a safe fallback.

"Are all housecarls like this?" Wulf mumbled into the fur he used as a blanket.

Argis felt a cold shiver pass through him, his hairs rising. "How many have you had?" he asked quietly.

 _Silence_. Shit, he shouldn't have said that. But if Wulfryk left bodies in his wake, Argis wanted to know. The housecarl sat up, bracing his hands behind his back.

"I could ask the same about your Thanes," Wulf retorted with a smile that showed too many teeth.

"The answer ain't 'just you', is it?"

"No," Wulf replied truthfully, and Dibella's tits, Argis realized he might have misunderstood. Shit, he shouldn't judge before he _knew_.

"I'm sorry," the housecarl offered.

"What?" Wulfryk sounded confused. Then he snorted softly. "No, she's alive." Almost as if to convince himself, he added, "She's fine. Married. With two babes."

"What did she call you?" Argis decided to let the matter rest for now. He lay down again. Next to him, Wulf was shaking with silent laughter and all the tension had dissolved again.

"Mostly it was something along the line of 'Hey, Shitface!'"

Argis cleared his throat and, keeping his voice carefully blank, asked, "Do you wish for me to address you like that as well?"

Something kicked his shin.

"Heeey," Wulf drawled, "You're not as humourless and dour as you pretend to be."

"I'll thank you – one way or another – when I decide whether that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult," the housecarl shot back.

Wulf's reply was to yawn. "You'll forgive me if I don't wait up, yes?"

"Aren't you just the tiniest bit curious?"

Wulf chuckled and the fur rustled softly as he stretched his arms above his head before curling up again. "The suspense is killing me," was the last thing he murmured before falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and reviewing. I failed utterly at my attempt to write a short chapter, but at least I got to work in 'If it cannot end messily, it is not fun", which, as Chamerion observed, totally should be a Nord mantra, if it isn't already.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. I did not have a good time with this chapter. First I rocked my very first writer's block (just kidding, it was awful) then I was buried in work and it SUCKED. Please excuse my mess, I'll try to do my best to get back on track. In the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter.

Instead of the cold bite of the pre-dawn air Argis awoke to the feeling of being comfortably warm. The reason for said unusual circumstance was that he was half-buried beneath a pile of furs that also happened to include his sleeping Thane. Wulf was breathing slowly and deeply, asleep until the housecarl moved, jostling him awake. Then he groaned and made an attempt at shifting that resulted in him rolling half an inch away from Argis. Maybe. It was a generous guess.

"I told you we are downhill," Wulf muttered without opening his eyes, his face still buried in Argis' shoulder.

"Come on," the blond Nord gently prodded him in the side to get him to move, ignoring the truth of Wulfryk's statement. The other man did not as much as twitch. "Move."

"M-mmm." Wulf made a noise that was halfway between an acknowledging grunt and an annoyed growl and refused to budge. "You're warm. My half is cold. M'staying." As if to prove his point he burrowed deeper into the bedding and Argis could have sworn he also became a few dozen pounds heavier.

The housecarl gave up on trying to persuade the other Nord to get up and lay back again, his gaze drawn to a rusty spot on the tent's ceiling that may or may not have been blood. His left arm was slowly growing numb, but with his Thane's full weight on top of it he couldn't move. As excuses went, it was a poor one, but he wasn't quite ready to admit that it was nice. He had not known he had missed this, the closeness, the heat of a body next to him.

He could smell the man beside him, sweat and a hint of spice, strong but not unpleasant. Well, maybe he was a bit ripe. They both were. They had gone days without a chance at bathing – because a change of clothes and a quick scrub in the icy stream didn't count, but by the Gods, Wulf still smelled good. Warm and sleepy and heady.

Argis could feel himself harden in his breeches. So that's all it took these days, was it?

It had been four years since the death of his lover. Four rather lonely years in which he had had nothing more than a couple of quick fucks to get off. His balls weren't the only part of him feeling empty after bending a nameless stranger over a bench in the backroom of some tavern in the far corners of the Reach. He had not lain beside another, not even innocently like this. Argis had not lied when he had told Wulf that he kept himself apart from his soldiers, even those who were his friends.

Under different circumstances the housecarl might have felt a twinge of relief that time had healed even that wound. Now all he could think about was; why did he have to have these feelings about the man who was his Thane, of all things? He was far more comfortable expressing exasperation than any kind of affection. And there was quite a lot of it. Argis found Wulf's tendency to create a mess wherever he went not only maddening, but truly unsettling. The man was a slob, a layabout, a ruffian and a liar. He might be the best source of outlandish tales within the Reach, and that was a remarkable feat in out of itself, but he was headed for some disaster, and fast.

Wulf was a walking, talking calamity waiting to happen. Argis could, in his very bones feel that the man's middle name spelled 'trouble'. He also knew as much by how the other man had appeared in Markarth. In a blaze, without announcement and without an apology for the lives he had disrupted. Argis expected him to leave the same way, and that thought left him with a feeling of bitter hollowness.

He had known many soldiers of fortune, but never for long.

And that, more than Wulfryk's blatant advances, put him ill at ease. Because he could not deny that there was a tentative bond between them. It was still fragile, but he knew they could strengthen the bond, build it into something that would last. They had already taken the first steps, drinking and spilling blood together, sharing nightly watches and stories.

Wulf was a friend and one Argis had become quite fond of, especially after the other man had made that pain in the arse, Yngvar, the laughing stock of the town in defence of his housecarl's honour. The blond Nord smiled with the memory of Thonar Silver-Blood's dog slinking away with his tail between his legs. That little stunt had earned his Thane an enemy, but he had also won over the hearts of many who had little love to spare for the Silver-Bloods. Hatred for Markarth's wealthiest family ran as deep in the city as veins of silver did in the rock it was built upon.

But Wulf made new friends easily and had already made most of Argis' his own. The soldiers respected him because he had been willing to take counsel from the warrior they themselves deferred to, and because Wulfryk had proven that he could pull his own weight. Argis' Thane had been adamant about partaking in the work that had to be done around the camp, in spite of it being evident that the mountains took their toll on him, not used as he was to climbing them.

The housecarl could tell that Wulfryk was still recovering from the exhaustion after crossing the Ódheas Pas Aill, but despite it he had not voiced a single complaint, which was very uncharacteristic for the man who could swear in Argis didn't even know how many languages for a good four minutes straight because he had been woken at the wrong time of the day. But then anything that wanted to survive and thrive in the Reach had to be bloody tenacious, and humans were no exception to that rule. Wulf fit right in, rugged, sharp and pitiless when he had to be; he was one of the most resourceful and gritty fighters the warrior had ever had the pleasure of crossing blades with. Once in every couple of bouts he managed to get the better of the housecarl. Anybody else and Argis might have considered... more.

But he was worst at protecting those closest around him. They wouldn't listen when he told them, so he did his best to simply keep them safe, but it never was enough. It was a curse, to have all the capability, the training, and yet to be forced to stand by idly in that crucial moment when misfortune delivered the fatal blow.

Maybe he should never have competed for the position housecarl all those years ago. But what else did he have? Being húskarl was his entire pride, his life.

Despondent from such dark thoughts, Argis took a strand of his Thane's dark hair and rubbed it against the shell of the other man's ear. When he poked it inside Wulf gave a full-bodied shudder and slapped his hand away with an unhappy groan, twisting away.

"Can I order you not to be an ass, housecarl?" the warrior mumbled, hiding his face in the soft furs.

"You can try," Argis replied agreeably.

"Just a little more."

"Only because you did not try to stab me this time," the blond Nord conceded generously and felt Wulf's smile against his shoulder.

"Hush, I'm working," the other Nord replied dreamily, his words in contrast with what he actually was doing.

"So?"

But this time Argis did not receive an answer.

 

That day they started out much later than usual. It was nearly midday when they the rolled up their tent and Wulf grudgingly accepted that there was no more going back to sleep. Argis stretched and felt something in his shoulder pop. His entire body felt stiff and he still had that funny prickly sensation in his arm, although a couple of minutes ago he had beaten some life into the limb.

His other arm was, for a change, aching again. The blond Nord rubbed the thick scars that criss-crossed his skin, despite knowing that the action would bring no relief. A hot bath might, but they were miles away from the nearest inn.

"Are you alright?"

Argis looked over to where Wulf had stopped idly poking at the fire to cast his housecarl a worried glance.

"Fine." Argis picked up his shield and went through the same forms he did every morning, until his moves were no longer sluggish, but quick and precise. Finding the motivation to follow through with the warming up exercises was a skill his Thane had never picked up, and out of the corner of his eye Argis saw him shrug and go back to staring at the dancing flames.

The housecarl kept going until he was feeling wide awake instead of half-asleep, but not long enough to tire. He didn't like sleeping. It was just the empty space in between times when he could do something useful. Though if he was entirely honest with himself, he might have needed the additional rest. He had not gotten much of it lately, and he had not allowed himself to oversleep in an eternity. Not that he had planned on dozing the day away. Argis had just... drifted off again. Worst of all, he couldn't even say when it had happened.

There was an old proverb that he remembered; namely that sleep always was better with the comfort of a lover next to one.

Argis' imaginary opponent, always so much better than his real ones, scored a nasty blow against his left shoulder and the housecarl retaliated by breaking his neck with the rim of his shield. He was far from happy with his performance, and he most certainly did not want to contemplate that stray thought which had popped into his head, unbidden. Fortunately, he had a walking, talking distraction in the form of his Thane. If Argis was more inclined to think about it, he might have laughed at the sheer irony of using Wulf to distract himself from the very man.

The other Nord was watching him avidly from beneath half-lidded eyes. "Who won?"

"I did," Argis replied, feeling marginally better. Enough for a small smile appear on his lips. "It was a close call. You should join me. If something attacks us-"

"I'll just hope it will go for you first," Wulf interrupted him with a smirk. "There's more meat on you."

"Scrawny helpless things make for easier kills," Argis countered, not really surprised by his Thane's answer.

Wulf snorted and scratched his head, causing a strand of hair to stick out at a funny angle.

"Your hair is a mess," the housecarl aptly observed.

"Yeah." Wulf almost sounded pleased, as if the rugged look he was sporting at the moment was a great achievement that needed to be shared with the rest of the world.

"You could braid it," Argis suggested.

"I could," Wulf agreed and did nothing the like.

With a sigh Argis let himself sink down next to his Thane. How did the man even see anything? The housecarl wiped his palms on his trousers – not the best way to get them clean, but good enough – before he ran his fingers through the thick black tresses in an attempt to comb out the worst snarls.

Wulf's eyes remained firmly glued to the small fire, but the housecarl felt rather than saw his attention shift to him. It was an almost disconcertingly peaceful moment they shared while he worked; twisting the front strands upwards just so that they wouldn't fall back into Wulf's eyes and tying the rest of his hair into a neat braid that he secured with a thin leather band. When he had finished, Argis let his hands, now without a task and restless, fall back into his lap.

"Thanks." The housecarl did not miss the slightly confused expression on his Thane's face, when the other man turned to regard him, but it was quickly followed by the now-familiar teasing. "What would I do without you?"

The blond Nord picked at a loose thread in his pants and ducked his head, hiding a smile. "You'd grow as shaggy as the bear-man of Fuarloch."

"The – who?"

"It's a tale out mother used to tell when we were young and didn't want to get cleaned up," Argis said and chuckled with the memory before he lapsed into the children's' story he only partly remembered.

"There once was a man who lived behind the far ridges of the Sceana Gorm in a small wooden hut, all on his own. He preferred the company of animals over that of humans, because they never told him what a proper Nord should look like. And so, over time, he stopped caring. He wouldn't rinse his mouth or cut his nails; he neither bathed, nor combed his hair. Thus he lived in the wilderness for many a year, but something happened–," the housecarl paused before resuming.

"I don't remember what. Anyway, the man left his home and trudged through the melting snow towards the nearest village, but he was attacked by a hungry pack of wolves. Three he managed to kill with his bare hands, but now their blood was on his clothes and arms, and it drove the others, mad with hunger after a long winter, into a frenzy. So he ran. For a day and a night he stayed ahead of the hunting pack until, close to breaking down at dawn, he stumbled onto a road. A heartbeat later the sound of hooves on stone made him look up, and he saw the Jarl's men ride towards him. The bear-man waved his arms and shouted so they would notice him and come to his aid. And so they did indeed, spurring their steeds into a canter, and the bear-man laughed, knowing he was saved. Until the soldiers drove their spears into his chest and not the wolves', for the animals were wise enough to withdraw back into the woods when they caught the scent of men."

"The spring hunt claimed the bear-man's life, as the soldiers thought he was a wild beast himself. The Jarl had his head mounted in his hall as a trophy and wears a pelt made from his hide."

Wulf's eyebrows shot up at the unexpected ending, and Argis grinned, half at his expression and half at the memories the tale stirred. "Believe me, that story worked miracles on all of us."

Wulfryk appeared somewhat sceptical, if clearly amused by the picture of his housecarl being intimidated into the washtub by his mother.

"Didn't your parents ever try to scare you into obedience with terrifying stories?" Argis asked, genuinely curious. They had never outright spoken about such private matters, but he recalled having mentioned his family a couple of times. Wulf had yet to lose a single word about his.

Argis knew it was the wrong thing to ask the moment the other man went still. He appeared to be at a loss for words for probably the first time ever since the beginning of their acquaintanceship.

Wulf swallowed and, not meeting his housecarl's eyes, quietly said, "Father wasn't big on stories."

Argis nodded and accepted that this was all he was going to get out of the other Nord, and decided to change the topic. "What did you mean earlier when you said you were working? I thought sleep was a pastime of yours."

Wulf leapt at the opportunity, regaining his balance from his earl slip with astonishing speed. "Oh, no. I have turned into a vocation and an art," he responded, playing along for once, if only to keep his housecarl from prying any further. "I try not to be an ass when I'm on a job. Call it my professional side."

Wulf's professional side lasted all of ten minutes through packing, until he got up and knuckled his back with a pained expression. "I swear I was a foot taller, before my legs decided to take up permanent residence in my arse."

Argis decided not to comment other than ask, "I thought I remember you saying you liked to walk."

The dark haired Nord appeared to regret ever voicing that particular sentiment. "Yes, but I've never had anybody who could run me into the ground, Sunshine," he said. "Caravans are slow things, mostly. And merchants are not soldiers – they like a comfortable inn and good food as much as the next man. So it wasn't very hard. Unlike this hiking thing." He lapsed back into complaining. "Who first saw a mountain and thought, 'Oh, hey this looks really big and steep. Let's waste our time and health on climbing it!' Somebody should invent a way to go under mountains. Or through them."

"Somebody already did," Argis said. "Many of the Dwemer ruins you can enter on one side of a range and exit on the other."

"Really?" Wulf's eyes had lit up at the news in a way that Argis found to be quite worrisome. "I think I'd like to visit one of them someday."

He had mentioned something like that before, and as much as Argis understood the initial fascination with the ancient ruins, the close experience with them had cured him of it. "I advise against it, my Thane. They're full of things that want to kill you."

Wulf tilted his head to the side in a playful way. "Which makes them different from the Reach – how?"

"Well." Argis allowed himself a moment to think of an answer. "The view isn't as nice."

Wulf barked out a surprised laugh that ended in a coughing fit. "Yeah, that's a valid concern." He shook his head and paced around the fire, handing his housecarl a fork. "Will you keep an eye on breakfast? Nature's calling." With that he strode away towards the edge of the forest.

"This isn't funny, you know!" Argis directed his reply at the dark haired Nord's back, but despite his gruff tone he felt the smile tug at his lips and pursed them. Better not to give his Thane any ideas.

"It wasn't supposed to be," Wulf hollered in answer. "Now that you mention it, though... " He turned and winked, before disappearing between the trees.

 

Three hours later Argis was regretting not having shut him up when he'd had the chance. He wasn't sure what he had done to deserve the _pun_ ishment.

"You know," Wulf drawled and the housecarl steeled himself for what was coming next. "You could just turn a blind eye."

The housecarl drew a deep breath and released it again in a massive sigh that bore a striking resemblance to the last moan of a dying horker. He heard Wulfryk's spontaneous fits of sniggering behind him for the next couple of minutes. The one time he turned to look back, Argis was hit with the full force of his Thane's smile, the white of the other man's teeth flashing brightly as the patches of snow in the sunlight against the black contrast of his beard.

Argis had had plenty of time to observe its effects on his men. And he wasn't immune himself. If Wulf wasn't hell-bent on picking a fight, he had an innate gift for fitting in, for putting everybody around him at ease. Outsiders might look upon their group and never be able to pick out who was the Thane.

"What? No more jokes?" the blond Nord asked when a couple of minutes went by without another comment.

Wulf regarded him with the most serious yet crestfallen expression Argis had beheld on a man ever since he had had to explain to a drunk Lars why all his sweetrolls were gone. "I used up all my best ones."

Argis put arm around his shoulders in silent support. The warrior opened his mouth, only to forget what it was he was going to say. He could see the corner of Wulf's mouth twitch, breaking up his sombre facade. Wulf was close enough that the housecarl could count the laugh lines around his eyes, and make out a small scar at the corner of his left one.

And then he was all too aware of just how close they were, could feel the ghost of Wulf's exhale on his cheek, and catch the scent of the sweet mint the other man had been chewing. And, for one brief, perfect moment, he considered giving in.

Argis might have done something stupid then, but the opportunity passed when the silence of the canyon they were walking in was torn asunder by a screeching roar so loud it caused several flocks of birds to take to the sky.

"What the-" Argis looked around. All his life he had spent in the Reach, and he had never heard anything quite like it. He knew the angry roar of a pair of sabrecats fighting over territory, and that of hungry cave bears woken by the spring thaw, but this was definitely neither of those. No animal that he knew made a sound like this. Whatever it was, it had to be huge.

"What was that?" At a loss, he looked to the man at his side, only to find that Wulf had gone rigid under his arm.

"We need to hide. Now." His Thane sounded calm, but he was as pale as fresh winter snow.

Argis did not question the strange order, as it came from the warrior who had laughed when they had attacked an entire camp of Forsworn and believed killing hagravens on his very own was a great joke. He knew there would be a time for answers, and this was not it.  

Wulf was already halfway to a cluster of boulders the size of a small hut before Argis had managed to do as much as open the clasps on his pack. Not happy about leaving his effects behind, he nonetheless dropped his gear and legged it across the ravine, almost twisting an ankle on a loose stone. Up ahead, Wulf had rolled under the rocks and was beckoning wildly for his housecarl to follow suit.

Damp debris did not make for the most alluring of places to lie down in, but they had some good cover here. From what, Argis could only guess. He was about to ask his Thane, when he heard the other man's breath catch. Wulfryk was on his back, unmindful of the trickle of water that was soaking his clothing, eyes scanning the sky.

As if he expected it to come from-

Argis saw the shadow first. Over the rocky ground it moved, liquid and dark, swallowing what sunlight covered the rock-strewn ground. All warmth seeped out of the world as its serrated edge passed over them, and then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone again.

That's when he saw it.

As beautiful as it was terrifying, the dragon glided through the cloudless sky with the grace of an airborne predator. It was hard to make out details against the blinding light of the sun, but Argis caught the copper glint of its scales, and the darker edges along its outline that looked like spikes, giving the otherwise sleek body a bulkier appearance. He heard the resounding crack as the beast beat its powerful wings once, the motion propelling it forward seemingly without effort.

The dragon began to circle almost directly above them. Once, twice, then half a dozen times, and all Argis could do was to stare at its underbelly, mesmerized by the motion of its flight. Dragons were the stuff of legends; reminiscent to a bygone age. They were the sort of magnificent, deadly beings you only heard of in the stories of old, and not something you came across whilst tracking through the wilds in pursuit of Forsworn.

The beast let out another screeching roar, a sound so powerful it made the very ground shake. Argis watched as it spiralled upwards, rising higher into the air to become a small speck against the endless blue of the sky, no bigger than a bird before it flew on.

"Fuck me sideways."

"Another time, maybe?" Wulf's eyes were closed, and whilst he wasn't exactly shaking, his dark complexion had an ashen pallor that allowed him to blend in with the washed out rock he was lying on.

Argis knew that he too ought to be afraid, but strangely enough instead of any kind of fear, a strange feeling of elation had taken hold of him. How many others had had the fortune to witness what they just had? Minutes ticked by, and he still could not believe his eyes; Wulf's terrible jokes be damned. Once in a lifetime a man might be lucky enough to come across something worthy of song, of a good story he could tell until the end of his days, and maybe even take with him to Sovngarde. And this was it, of that the housecarl was sure.

"That was a dragon."

"Well observed," Wulf replied. They were still lying under the boulders, motionless in case the beast came back.

"I thought they were all dead." It was a meaningless statement in light of the truth. Argis knew that huntsmen and scouts ofttimes reported of finding bones too big to belong to any creature alive. Mammoths seldom traversed the rough terrain of the Reach, and never did they climb the mountain peaks, or guard strange stone monuments with ancient carvings etched in the stone so long ago, they were worn off by wind and rain until their outlines could barely be made out.

Few there were who did not know at least a fragment of the saga; of when mankind had been under the rule of the wyrms of Akatosh, and of Alduin, the black dragon who in his greed wanted to swallow the world. He found his demise at the hands of the ancient heroes, when the Nord people had learned the secret of the Thu'um and harnessed its power to strike back against their subjugators. They had prevailed, and the dragons were now gone from the world, hunted until extinction by the bravest of warriors.

Argis might never get the chance to test his prowess against such a foe, but that was not the sole reason for his excitement turning to melancholy. He would never forget the sight, etched as it was into his mind – even if he wouldn't experience it again. For some reason the dragon circling over the peaks of the Reach felt... right. It was as wild and untamed a thing as the Reach itself, its lonesome cries still ringing in the air, distorted by distance though it was long gone from sight.

His Thane was not sharing any of the housecarl's enthusiasm at their discovery, nor any of his astonishment. Argis realized that Wulfryk had not reacted to the roar with surprise, or dread at the unknown source, but that he had recognized the sound for what it had been. "You knew."

Wulf swallowed and gave him a tiny nod, not looking at the man at his side, but up as if he was afraid the dragon would return the moment he tore his eyes away. "A dragon burned down Helgen."

"You -," Argis began before he changed his tack. He was shocked to find the rumours confirmed and by the fact that it was evident Wulf knew more of the event than he let on. That he had mentioned it at all seemed a confession, and not one he would make lightly. Argis took the piece of information in, but did not press, storing it away for a time when he felt like could address it. The Nord braced himself on one elbow, the bone digging into the hard underground painfully. He could see the sky reflected in his Thane's eyes, a lighter shade of blue. "Are you alright?"

As if on cue, Wulf rolled to his feet and stood hugging himself. He appeared cold despite his warm clothes, and them being in the full light of the pale winter sun. "No. Not really."

 

xxxx

 

"This must be it."

Wulf looked up to see Argis studying the mountain peaks around them. More mountains for them to climb or cross. By now he was sick of mountains. The one good thing to be said about them was that they provided lots of possible cover – for them and for every Forsworn in this madmen-infested hold.

"There is the Shepherd. And this one's ChoróinBhaintrí, Widow's Crown." Argis appeared sure of himself as he pointed towards the east. "This is the right valley. I think we are just behind that camp."

"Great." Wulf's gaze followed the direction of his housecarl's finger, but since he was not familiar with the land, the names meant nothing to him. He hefted his backpack higher, readjusting its position. "Is has been a lovely trip. Can we go back now?" he asked.

Argis just drew up one eyebrow and Wulfryk guessed that turning back was not an option at this point.

"Please tell me there's at least a nice tavern waiting for us. One where busty maids will serve us breakfast in bed and the worst thing that can happen to us is some burly old sod with an apron and a funny moustache for an innkeeper." Given what awaited them at the end of their journey, Wulf felt like he was entitled to a bit of pessimism.

He had that queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that never bode well. Or maybe he shouldn't have drunk from that one stream. Who knew?

Argis didn't even break stride to retort, "Keep your eyes peeled, then. Closest place they serve mead is Sovngarde."

Damn him. He had picked up on the rules of this game way too fast.

"I hate you, housecarl," Wulf grumbled unhappily.

He had been tense ever since they had sighted that dragon, and would have preferred travelling at night, but Argis was more afraid of them stumbling into ravines or getting lost than he was of being roasted alive and eaten by a giant lizard. Wulf thought his housecarl needed to get his priorities straight. He knew that they could not afford any delay, or they might be trapped by the cold and the snows, but although that threat was very much present, it didn't seem nearly as terrifying as the unknown dangers lurking ahead. He had survived cold, starvation, and barbaric tribesmen trying to murder him before.

It was one thing to face an enemy, somebody he could fight with sword and bow, even magic, but dragons were another matter entirely. They were clever, flying, fire-spitting harbingers of death, and a problem Wulf had hoped to have left far behind him when he had fled Whiterun. It was bad enough news to learn that the World-Eater was still raising his dead kin, they did not need any close encounters with the monsters. At least, according to Paarthurnax, another dragon meant that the black bastard himself would not make an appearance for at least a couple of months.

Wulf remembered Helgen all too clearly for comfort – the screams of soldiers and civilians alike trapped by the city walls, the feeling of being a sitting duck for something neither of them was capable of fighting, and all the time fire and rocks rained down on them. He never wanted to live through anything the like again. Therefore it seemed that fate itself was mocking him, when a scarce few months later Mirmulnir had attacked. And from there everything had gone downhill.

Wulf tried to tell himself that the dragon's appearance had nothing to do with him, that it had probably lived here nearby before. Lots of those damned mountains; that had to be it. Dragons liked mountains, which was another reason for him to _dislike_ them. It must have been hunting. With some luck it would find the Forsworn and eat them all, thus ridding them of the necessity to go looking for the crazy, dead-raising, Daedra worshipping savages themselves.

"What now?" Wulf wanted to know, somewhat cheered up by that last thought.

"Now it's time we do what we came here for," Argis answered grimly, cocking his head to the side to get rid of a crick in his neck. Wulfryk had to admit, his housecarl looked very determined.

 

That evening they had no fire to keep them warm, only a cold meal and an overgrown ditch to roll up in. Wulf wrapped himself in the warmest clothes he had and spent the remainder of the night dozing fitfully. Come dawn his mantle was covered in a thin sheet of ice and for the first time ever he was glad when Argis had them moving again.

After an hour of steadily marching uphill they came upon a gully cutting through a steep slope. It looked like a landslide, or maybe an avalanche had once occurred here. Dense thickets of mountain pine grew on either side of the ravine, hiding them from view. The going was slow, and the footing treacherous; loose rocks and crumbling earth shifted with every step, trying to drag them downwards again. That they had barely enough light to get by did not make the climb any easier.

At the end of it they were rewarded with the sight of the huge, bowl-shaped valley lying below them. They'd have to wait for morning's light to reveal the entire encampment to them, as nothing but the countless fires smouldering at its bottom could be made out yet.

Argis snorted derisively at the sight. "They keep chopping up trees like that they'll save us the bother of killing them come spring." Before Wulf could ask what he meant by that, the blond warrior pointed out a dark silhouette against the slowly greying sky. "Hag's Rock is just up there."

The sun was rising while Wulf and Argis crept along the mountain ridge, carefully making their way closer to the ruins. This early the shadows were longest, providing plenty of cover, but it would not last for long.

"Won't they be able to spot us from up there?" Wulf asked when they allowed themselves a short break. He squinted towards the remains of a tower on top of what that once must have been a formidable fortress. Especially if one considered that it stood in the middle of nowhere.

"The ruins don't overlook this part of the valley," Argis said and took the piece of hard cheese Wulf offered him. "I think they were meant to face east. This was once a temple of some sort, with a watchtower on top." He took a bite and climbed to his feet with a grunt. "You good to go?"

Wulf sighed heavily and accepted the hand offered to him. He freed his small recurve from its protective wrappings of oiled leathers, and stepped through the bow to string it. In case they needed to get rid of someone quickly and quietly from a distance. He nodded to Argis and they set out again.

Their way wound steadily upwards until they were practically hugging the stonework. Everything around them appeared still. Cattle and goats were grazing on the far slopes, and Wulf could now spot the round shapes of stone huts clustered at the lowest part of the camp. He prayed that the enemy was yet asleep and that no shepherd on his way to take his morning leak looked their way.

So far things had gone surprisingly smoothly. They did not encounter any sentries before reaching a small overgrown circular platform that looked like it might have been the fortress' courtyard a very long time ago. Its crumbling walls would shield them from any eyes from below, but not above.

Argis rid himself of his pack and crawled to the edge to have a better view of the Forsworn camp.

"They're here for the winter, alright," the warrior said after a while.

Wulf had the feeling there was more to come, but Argis did not volunteer it, instead chewing on the inside of his cheek until the dark haired Nord could stand it no longer. "What?" He kept his eyes on the tower above them, watchful of the slightest sign of movement behind one of its narrow embrasures.

"There's rocks blocking my sight and 'they're here' isn't much of a report," Argis admitted. "I want to get the layout of the camp, get an estimated count of heads then get out of here and put as many miles between us and them as we can."

And, as Wulf understood it, the sooner they did the former the sooner they could do the latter. "Let's go then."

A short flight of weather-worn stairs took them to a door. Argis undid a small latch and it opened, allowing them to step into a dark corridor that opened up to a spacious hall. It was not long before their eyes had adjusted and Wulf could make out a large round staircase leading downwards. There seemed to be more rooms on the other side of the chamber, but it they were in the wrong direction to belong to the tower.

Another passageway away and they found what they had been looking for. Above them the wooden ceiling had half rotted away, and broken planks were littering the ground. The whole place smelled of disuse and decay.

"They don't seem to come up here," Wulf observed, holding one hand up to cover his nose. It was surprising, insofar as this tower was the best vantage point one could ask for.

"Means one thing," Argis replied quietly, with his voice nearly dropped to a whisper. "If there's a place Forsworn won't go, it's because something nastier is keeping them away. Never wonder why the lock was on the outside?"

"You mean another one of those hag-things?" Wulf asked, confused. "I thought you once said they worshipped them."

"Sure they do - right up until they get ritually sacrificed to please the Old Gods," Argis muttered, and glared at the ceiling.

Wulf was sure the beams were very thoroughly intimidated; he'd be amazed if they dared to do as much as squeak. He thought of something clever to say in answer to the revelation of human sacrifices, but truth be told it wasn't worth the bother. He wasn't even surprised anymore. What came next? Cannibal cultures and worshipping of Molag Bal?

"If we meet a hagraven, things will be bad."

"We can kill her." Wulf had done so without much trouble, and he was sure Argis had put dozens of gross lady-bird hybrids in the ground.

"Sure. Then she's dead and every Forwsorn will know somebody was here and try to find the ones responsible.

There was that. "Right. Never mind, them."

Argis was still considering the benefits of going up for a better view versus the risk of discovery when Wulf's ears picked out the last thing he wanted to hear.

"Somebody's coming up."

The glance the housecarl shot his Thane clearly stated that he hoped that the only thing making an appearance was the dark haired warrior's inappropriate sense of humour. But Wulf was dead serious, listening to the some sound only he could hear.

It was decided, them. Wulf and Argis tiptoed upstairs and skirted along the outer edge of the floor, careful, because the old wood did not give the appearance of being able to withstand the weight of one of the men. Maybe they were lucky and the Forsworn was just passing through or on a routine stroll. But no, the steps kept coming closer until stopped directly under them. Breathless seconds passed in which neither man dared to move a muscle.

Wulf nearly jumped when all of a sudden a male voice called out,

"Àrd-mhàthairurramach!"

He shot his houscarl an alarmed glance. The bow and arrow were in his hands, he only had to step from cover, draw and let fly. They did have a chance, however slim, at outrunning their enemy, but none if his man brought all the Forsworn down on them. Wulf made eye contact with Argis, ready to step forward, but the blond shook his head ever so slightly.

No answer came from above, and the man below shuffled ere he called out again, "Àrd-mhàthair urramach! Iarrann do mhac maithiúnas do cur isteach ort, ach tá do béile ullmhaithe."

Wulf didn't understand a word, but to his ears the Forsworn sounded nervous to the point of being afraid. Again there was no reply, but Wulfryk was watching only the man next to him. His housecarl signalled him to wait, gentle pressure of his fingers pushing the Thane's bow down.

From below there was a clank, like that of something being put down, and then Wulf listened to the Forsworn pace, before the man's footsteps began to retreat and he could trace them no longer.. Faintly, the sound of a door closing somewhere reached his ears, and only then did he allow all the penned up air to escape his lungs with a great sigh. "I think he's gone."

"Good," Argis grunted. "Give me a few minutes." He made his way to the window, where he went still.

Wulfryk could only see Argis' blond head, and assumed that he was memorizing the layout of the camp, getting a count of the tents to estimate the Forsworn numbers. Each and every scrap of information would help the soldiers in the summer campaigns. He only wished his housecarl would hurry up. Already the sky was turning to alabaster, sunrise was but minutes away.

It was time for them to go. They now knew the information the soldiers had gotten out of their captives was accurate. There was another camp here – more slaughter for the warriors once they tired of mead and idleness, and began to thirst for blood. What more did they need? And what was taking Argis so long?

Wulf began to pace a little. His feet carried him to the last flight of stairs of their own accord. He could hear something, only an echo of a whisper, but it was there, coming from above. Like an old melody, he remembered the tune, could almost make the words. He only needed to get a little closer. He did not even notice taking the first step upwards.

"Two clans," Argis said in a hushed voice.

Wulf stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"I said there's at least two clans here, if not more. They're keeping apart." He turned back to face the window.

Wulf shook his head. No, that wasn't it. "No, before that." He missed the brief look Argis cast him, before the blond shook his head and went back to studying the Forsworn camp.

Meanwhile, Wulfryk cocked his head to better make out the murmur. "Do you hear that?"

The housecarl grunted in annoyance. "Hear what?"

If Wulf had an answer, he might have told him. He only knew that he had to follow, that this was a summon he could not resist. The stairs took him to the top of the tower, where a small plateau overlooked the basin below. Here he found what he was looking for. The wall was just as he remembered, dark of stone with carvings of dragons adorning its sides. It called to him.

From below he could hear Argis' call out in confusion.

"Wulf? "

"I'm here, Wulf answered absent-mindedly, far too softly for the other man to hear. He was nearly there now, the chant was getting louder with every step.

"My Thane?"

Everything around Wulf faded back to darkness, but amidst it there was a blue glow, and it continued to grow. He could almost make it out –

"Wulfryk!"

Wulf wasn't sure why, but Argis shouldn't be shouting.

One word stood out clearly amidst lined of script that appeared to have been etched into the rock by something with terribly large claws. FAAS. He remembered its meaning, from his lessons with the Greybeards. _Fear_. He could feel it, too, but it was that of another man, far away. What a strange thing to find inside a falling-apart tower.

The mist cleared and Wulf had to blink for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of dawn. He got as far as opening his mouth to object, before he noticed the scene unfurling before him. The stone table, the tower had just come from, Argis' shocked face. For the first time since he had come to know him, the housecarl looked scared.

And between them crouched the hagraven, her disfigured, claw-like hands aglow with magic.

Wulf pointed at the stone behind him. "Wonderful wall you have here. I was just admiring it. Please. There's no need to get up on my behalf." She couldn't understand what he was saying, but Wulf kept talking, more for his own sake than because he truly believed it would help.

"What a lovely place, did you decorate it yourself?" The hagraven hissed at him. "Not my style, but to each his own, right?"

He made a tiny motion towards the blood splattered alter. Flies buzzed around the severed head of a dead skeever. The small animal's entrails were spilled over the table, the blood staining the surface a rusty brown. Soulgems were arranged around the offering, and candles, burned down to mere stumps, flickered in pools of wax.

Why didn't shady magical rituals or mythical readings ever entail nice things? Like dandelions. There was nothing bad to be said about dandelions.

Wulf knew what soulgems were, and what they were used for, and shuddered. "I think I'll leave now."

He had nearly inched his way past the altar before the hagraven shook off her bewilderment at the unannounced visitor. Wulf didn't get a warning before his vision was filled with fire.

Maybe it was because he was standing next to the damned dragon wall that he thought to Shout.

Not that he actually raised his voice. FEIM was but a sigh, spoken so softly it carried on a mere breath. Wulf felt scalding heat and then sound and sight ceased to be as the Shout carried him outside of this reality.

When he snapped back, it was to see the dead hag drop from Argis' grip. The housecarl's face was pale and drawn in what Wulf first took to be grief. He wasn't sure, but the other man actually seemed to be shaking. Their eyes met, and Wulfryk saw Argis' good eye widen in surprise.

And then,

"Have you lost your mind!?" the blond warrior bellowed at the top of his lungs, while Wulf still trying to beat out a small fire smouldering on top of his charred leathers.

Shouts were coming from somewhere far below. Wulfryk realized that the fireballs exploding against the rock must have made awoken the entire camp. They were fucked, and Argis had nothing better to do but go on about what kind of a shithead his Thane was to nearly let himself be killed by a hagraven so he could spend his last heartbeats staring at a blank wall.

Wulf had enough trouble focusing over the over the buzzing building in the back of his mind. He understood that they needed to go, but thinking was nearly impossible with his head feeling like it was stuffed with tundra cotton, and he had not regained the ability to communicate his thoughts yet. The warrior didn't really want to deal with his housecarl's attitude right on top of what he knew was coming any second now. "Oh, shut up," he managed to grind out and was glad when it came out in Nord.

Wonder of wonders, the other man did and Wulfryk enjoyed a full second of unbridled, uninterrupted panic.

_Dovahkiin!_

"Son of a – " Argis never got to finish his sentence.

With the sun finally slipping over the old stones high above, so did the spiked shape of the dragon. It perched on the cliff, long claws clicking against the rock in an almost idle manner. The beast's hot breath stirred up a puff of dust from the ground, carrying the smell of molten rock and rancid meat. Its wings remained spread, spanning the horizon. The world narrowed down to the ancient dovah and one dark haired warrior standing before it, tiny by comparison.

"Drem Yol Lok." Wulf registered how his voice sounded funny, how it did not seem to be him speaking. Had he moved his lips? He couldn't remember. He didn't know how he had managed to form words through the burning ache in his clenched throat.

The dragon chuckled, and the sound of it did nothing to put Wulf at ease.

_Dovahkiin. Zu'u koraav hi. Zu'u sahlon hin faas._ _Zu'u ken suleyk do hin thu'um._ _Ru mal joor, waan hi lorot nii fen sav hi. Dii in lost uth hin dukiin._

_Ful nii fent kos._

That last sentence sounded awfully final.

Wulf didn't think he had ever moved as fast as he did then, but he'd be damned if he died here and now, to that dragon. He had not seen his thirtieth nameday yet. He didn't know the names of Lydia's babes, and he hadn't kissed the stubborn ass that was his housecarl.

But he did hit the surprised man at full run, which toppled the warrior and sent them both flying.

YOLTOOR-

Wulf was already mid-air, wildly waving his arms as the floor of the tower rushed up to meet him. He had a split second to regret his decision, and then he crashed into the ground, broke through it, and continued his flight down. Wulfryk hit the bottom hard and tried to roll to lessen the impact of his landing, but his pack threw him off-balance. He felt a sharp jolt shoot through his ankle, and then the world was upside-down and full of pain. Somebody was beating him up good, and he tried to curl himself into a ball and to cover his head with his arms.

It didn't last long, was over before he figured out what had happened. Wulf came to a stop, head-down, his body sprawled out on the stairs. Everything hurt. He was going to throw up. Life was terrible. Maybe he should have let the dragon end it.

Next to him Argis picked himself off the floor which was littered with planks and pieces of broken wood from the ceiling. The blond appeared stunned by the fall, but not hurt beyond the bruises they would both be sporting. It wasn't fair. The housecarl hadn't even let go of his shield and for some reason that stuck Wulfryk as hilarious. He couldn't laugh, only gasp for breath, mesmerized by the sight of the painted gates of Markarth glowing cherry red, just like the picture behind his eyelids when Wulf blinked his eyes. He'd had enough of being set on fire for a day, so he did his best to keep them open.

Thankfully the shield's enchantment provided enough light to see by. Wulf rolled to all fours, battered and bruised, but miraculously not injured – not that he could tell – and decided he was going to live after all.

With the dragon's angry roars reverberating from the top of the tower, there was only one way they could go from here. A rusty gate at the bottom of the stairs blocked any further passages lying behind it. Argis broke the corroded hinges with a kick, and tossed the iron grate to the side, but he appeared hesitant to step into the dark corridor.

"We don't know where this leads."

"Anything's better than what's waiting outside," Wulf shouted back, because his hearing had turned into a thin beeping sound.

As if to underline his words, the screams began a moment later. Wulfryk wished he could tune those out as well or pass out. Unconsciousness sounded tempting at this point. He concentrated on staying upright instead, and somehow managed the descent, hopping down the stairs on one foot.

Another large chamber followed a short corridor. A spiral staircase with a large gap where its middle steps once had been led to what Wulf recognized as one of the stone mounds they had seen dotting the dale. It had a door of iron bars, and through them they could see the dragon fly circles over the burning encampment.

Wulf doubted he could make the climb to the top, battered as he was. And if he did, and they somehow managed to get the gate open, where would they go? Out, where the Forsworn were? Not to mention a dragon which had nearly killed them a moment ago? As much as he enjoyed the sight of the blue sky, Wulf would rather remain indoors.

He was granted his wish in the next instance when the dragon brought down the tower they had fled but a moment ago. Wulf had a glimpse of the structure toppling over with an earth-shattering boom. The very ground shook from the collapse, from tons of stones cascading down, and then the word outside went under in a grey cloud of dust. Darkness settled over the room which had been illuminated by beams of sunlight mere seconds ago.

Wulfryk stumbled away, coughing, and used his arm to shield his face. There was no going back that way, now.

The only way that remained open to them was down.

His ankle hurt every time he put some weight on it, but he didn't think it was broken. Not unless the shock was masking the pain. 'He'd have to remember to check his leg for swelling later,' Wulf thought. For now survival was everything that counted. He had understood enough of the dovahzul to know the dragon was not here by mere circumstance.

They descended into older parts of the ruins. Faceless statues held their eternal vigil in niches and the walls were adorned with runes. Carvings Wulf recognized all too well. Argis' previous comment about the lock being on the outside made even more sense now. The Forsworn weren't trying to keep intruders out. There were trying to keep whatever was inside these ruins in.

"The barrow?" Argis asked, when they came to a stop in front of a huge double-doors hewn of stone. He was still furious, his anger evident by his tight poise and voice. "Why not throw us down that beast's maw? Would be quicker."

Wulf shrugged in answer, not in the mood to explain his choices. They were lucky that blighted tower had not collapsed right on top of their heads. He would rather risk the dangers of the old Nord tomb a thousand times over than face what was waiting in lay outside. Wulf called an orb of light to his shield-hand and pushed the wooden bar to the side. The slightest touch of his hand was enough to open the doors, and they swung inwards with an ominous creak. The crypt dark as the proverbial grave, the air from below icy and fetid, but it was a danger he was familiar with.

From outside the monster's sonorous voice still called out in challenge of the dragonborn. Well, the dragon could kiss dovahkiin's ass. One camp of Forsworn he was fine with. Two, one after the other, were a crowd. Add a dratted magic wall that robbed him of all his wits and dragon to that, and the situation became a bloody mess – quite literally – and Wulfryk had no desire to partake in this little party, oh no. Dovahkiin was beating it. Wulf sent out the light to illuminate the vault in front of them and limped ahead, where the dragon's bellows faded into hollow silence, broken only by the echo of Argis' heavy tread.

~ END OF PART ONE ~  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dragonborn! I see you. I smell your fear. I taste the power of your Thu'um. Run little mortal, if you think it will save you. My master has command your demise. So it shall be."
> 
> Thank you for reading, for your kudos and follows and comments! Special thanks go to Darksand17 who gave the nudge I needed to finish this chapter. You're the best!
> 
> I can say that, hands-down, my favourite moment of the game is when you walk some lonely road and hear the call of a dragon. Then you look up, and see it flying above, and you just stop to watch, forgetting to play, and that it's 'just a game'.
> 
> What does end of part 1 mean? I'm not sure. Mostly it's just for me to get an overview. So what comes now? Winter. Markarth. Intrigue. A lot more bonding between Wulf and Argis and a few other things I won't tell.


End file.
